/    3 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


AMEEICAN  MISCELLANY. 


CONSISTING   OF 


CHOICE   SELECTIONS 


FROM    THE   WRITINGS   OF 


HEADLEY,  CHANNING-,     WEBSTER,    BRYANT, 

COOPER,  AMES,  STORY,          WILLIS, 

IRVING.  JEFFERSON,'  HAVENS,       PERCIVAL, 

POE,  WIRT,  ADAMS,  HALLECK, 

WOODWORTH,  MELVILLE,     ALLSTON,    BRAINARD. 


AND  OTHER  ENGLISH  AUTHORS. 


BATH,  N.  Y. 
,  L.  UNDERBILL  &  Co. 

1851. 


AMERICA!  MISCELLAM. 


PART  I. 


NARATIVE   PIECES. 


Mount  Tabor. 

WHAT  strange  contrasts  this  earth  of  ours  presents. 
It  seems  to  be  the  middle  spot  between  heaven  and  hell,  and 
to  partake  of  the  character  of  both.  Beings  from  both 
are  found  moving  over  its  surface,  and  scenes  from  both  are 
constantly  occurring  upon  it.  The  glory  from  one  and  the 
midnight  shades  from  the  other  meet  along  its  bosom,  and 
the  song  of  angels  and  the  shriek  of  fiends  go  up  from  the 
same  spot.  Noonday  and  midnight  are  not  more  opposite 
than  the  scenes  that  are  constantly  passing  before  our  eyes. 
The  temple  of  God  stands  beside  a  brothel,  and  the  place 
of  prayer  is  separated  only  by  a  single  dwelling  from  the 
"  hell "  of  the  gambler.  Truth  and  falsehood  walk  side  by 
side  through  our  streets,  and  vice  and  virtue  meet  and  pass 
every  hour  of  the  day.  The  hut  of  the  starving  stands  in 
the  shadow  of  the  palace  of  the  wealthy,  and  the  carriage  of 
the  Dives  every  day  throws  the  dust  of  its  glittering  wheels 
over  the  tattered  garments  of  Lazarus.  Health  and  sickness 
lie  down  in  the  same  apartment :  joy  and  agony  look  out  of 
the  same  window;  and  hope  and' despair  dwell  under  the 
same  roof.  The  cry  of  the  new  born  infant  and  groan  of 
the  dying  rise  together. from  the  same  dwelling  :  the  funeral 
procession  treads  close  on  the  heels  of  the  bridal  party,  and 
the  tones  of  the  lute  and  viol  have  scarcely  died  away  before 
the  requiem  for  the  dead  comes  swelling  after.  Oh  !  the 
beautiful  and  the  deformed,  the  pure  and  corrupt,  joy  and 
sorrow,  ecstacies  and  agonies,  life  and  death,  are  strangely 
blent  on  this  restless  planet  oif  ours. 

Bat  the  past  and  future  present  as  strange  contrasts  as 


MOUNT  TABOR. 


•the  present.  What  different  events  have  transpired  on  the 
same  spot.  Where  the  smoke  of  the  Indian's  wigwam  arose, 
and  the  stealthy  tread  of  the  wolf  and  panther  was  heard 
over  the  autumn  leaves  at  twilight,  the  population  of  New 
York  now  surges  along.  Where  once  Tyre  the  queen  of  the 
sea  stood,  fishermen  are  spreading  their  nets  on  the  desolate 
rocks,  and  the  bright  waves  are  rolling  over  its  marble  col- 
umns. In  the  empty  apartments  of  Edom  the  fox  makes  his 
den,  and  the  dust  of  the  desert  is  sifting  over  the  forsaken 
ruins  of  Palmyra.  The  owl  hoots  in  the  ancient  halls  of 
kings,  and  the  wind  of  the  summer  night  makes  sad  music 
through  the  rents  of  once  gorgeous  palaces.  The  Arab  spurs 
•  his  steed  along  the  streets  of  ancient  Jerusalem,  or  scornfully 
stands  and  curls  his  lip  at  the  pilgrim  pressing  wearily  to  the 
sepulchre  of  the  Saviour.  The  Muezzin's  voice  rings  over  the 
bones  of  the  prophets,  and  the  desert  wind  heaps  the  dust 
above  the  foundations  of  the  seven  churches  of  Asia.  Oh, 
how  good  and  evil,  light  and  darkness,  chase  each  other  over 
the  world. 

Forty-seven  years  ago,  a  form  was  seen  standing  on 
Mount  Tabor  with  which  the  world  has  since  become 
familiar.  It  was  a  bright  spring  morning,  and  as  he 
sat  on  his  steed  in  the  clear  sunlight,  his  eye  rested  on  a 
scene  in  the  vale  below,  which  was  sublime  and  appalling 
enough  to  quicken  the  pulsations  of  the  calmest  heart.  That 
form  was  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  and  the  scene  before  him 
the  fierce  and  terrible  "  BATTLE  OF  MOUNT  TABOR."  From 
Nazareth,  where  the  Saviour  once  trod,  Kleber  had  marched 
•with  three  thousand  French  soldiers  forth  into  the  plain, 
when  lo,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Tabor  he  saw  the  whole  Turk- 
ish army  drawn  up  in  order  of  battle.  Fifteen  thousand 
infantry  and  twelve  thousand  splendid  cavalry  moved  down 
in  majestic  strength  on  this  band  of  three  thousand  French. 
Kleber  had  scarcely  time  to  throw  his  handful  of  men  into 
squares,  with  the  cannon  at  the  angles,  before  those  twelve 
thousand  horse,  making  the  earth  smoke  and  thunder  as  they 
came,  burst  into  a  headlong  gallop  upon  them.  But  round 
those  steady  squares  rolled  a  fierce  devouring  fire,  emptying 
the  saddles  of  those  wild  horsemen  with  frightful  rapidity, 
and  strewing  the  earth  with  the  bodies  of  the  riders  and 
steeds  together.  Again  and  again  did  those  splendid  squad- 
rons wheel,  re-form  and  charge  with  deafening  shouts,  while 
their  uplifted  and  flashing  scimitars  gleamed  like  a  forest  of 
steel  through  the  smoke  of  battle ;  but  that  same  wasting  fire 
received  them  ;  till  those  squares  seemed  bound  by  a  girdle 


MOUNT  TABOR. 


of  flame,  so  rarid  and  constant  were  the  discharges.  Before 
the  certain  and  deadly  aim  as  they  stood  fighting  for  exist- 
ence, the  charging  squadrons  fell  so  fast  that  a  rampart  of 
dead  bodies  was  soon  formed  around  them.  Behind  this 
embankment  of  dead  men  and  horses  this  band  of  warriors 
stood  and  fought  for  six  dreadful  hours,  and  was  still  steadily 
thinning  the  ranks  of  the  enemy,  when  Napoleon  debouched 
with  a  single  division  on  Mount  Tabor,  and  turned  his  eye 
below.  What  a  scene  met  his  gaze.  The  whole  plain  was 
filled  with  marching  columns  and  charging  squadrons  of 
wildly  galloping  steeds,  while  the  thunder  of  cannon  and 
fierce  rattle  of  musketry,  amid  which  now  and  then  was 
heard  the  blast  of  thousands  of  trumpets,  and  strains  of 
martial  music,  filled  all  the  air.  The  smoke  of  battle  waa 
rolling  furiously  over  the  hosts,  and  all  was  confusion  and 
chaos  in  his  sight.  Amid  the  twenty-seven  thousand  Turks 
that  crowded  the  plain  and  enveloped  their  enemy  like  a 
cloud,  and  amid  the  incessant  discharge  of  artillery  and  mus- 
ketry, Napoleon  could  tell  where  his  own  brave  troops  were 
struggling,  only  by  the  simultaneous  vollies  which  showed 
how  discipline  was  contending  with  the  wild  valor  of  over- 
powering numbers.  The  constant  flashes  from  behind  that 
rampart  of  dead  bodies  were  like  spots  of  flame  on  the  tu- 
multuous and  chaotic  field.  Napoleon  descended  from 
Mount  Tabor  with  his  little  band,  while  a  single  twelve- 
pounder,  fired  from  the  heights,  told  the  wearied  Kleber  that 
he  was  rushing  to  the  rescue.  Then  for  the  first  time  he 
took  the  offensive,  and  pouring  his  enthusiastic  followers  on 
the  foe,  carried  death  and  terror  over  the  field.  Thrown  into 
confusion,  and  trampled  under  foot,  that  mighty  army  rolled 
turbulently  back  towards  the  Jordan,  where  Murat  was  anx- 
iously waiting  to  mingle  in  the  fight.  Dashing  with  his  cav- 
alry among  the  disordered  ranks,  he  sabered  them  down 
without  mercy,  and  raged  like  a  lion  .amid  the  prey.  This 
ohivalric  and  romantic  warrior  declared  that  the  remem- 
brance of  the  scenes  that  once  transpired  on  Mount  Tabor, 
and  on  these  thrice  consecrated  spots,  came  to  him  in  the 
hottest  of  the  fight,  and  nerved  him  with  tenfold  courage. 

As  the  sun  went  down  over  the  plains  of  Palestine, 
and  twilight  shed  its  dim  ray  over  the  rent  and  trodden  and 
dead-covered  field,  a  sulphurous  cloud  hung  around  the  sum- 
mit of  Mount  Tabor.  The  smoke  of  battle  had  settled  there 
where  once  the  cloud  of  glory  rested,  while  groans  and 
shrieks  and  cries  rent  the  air.  Nazareth,  Jordan  ami  Mount 
Tabor !  what  spots  for  battle-fields ! 


MOUNT  TABOR. 


Roll  back  twenty  centuries  and  again  view  that.  hill. 
The  day  is  bright  and  beautiful,  and  the  same  rich  oriental 
landscape  is  smiling  'on  the  same  sun.  There  is  Nazareth 
with  its  busy  population, — the  same  Nazareth  from  which 
Kleber  marched  his  army  :  and  there  is  Jordan  rolling  its 
bright  waters  along,— the  same  Jordan  along  whose  banks 
charged  the  glittering  squadrons  of  Murat's  cavalry;  and 
there  is  Mount  Tabor, — the  same  on  which  Bonaparte  stood 
•with  his  cannon  ;  and  the  same  beautiful  plain  where  rolled 
the  smoke  of  battle,  and  struggled  thirty  thousand  men  in 
mortal  combat.  But  how  different  is  the  scene  that  is  passing 
there.  The  Son  of  God  stands  on  that  height  and  casts  his 
•eyes  over  the  quiet  valley  through  which  Jordan  winds  its 
silver  current  Three  friends  are  beside  Him :  they  have 
walked  together  up  the  toilsome  way,  and  now  the  four  stand 
mere  specks  on  the  distant  summit.  Far  away  to  the  north- 
west shines  the  blue  Medeterranean — all  around  is  the  great 
plain  of  Esdradon  and  Galilee — eastward,  the  Lake  Tiberias 
dots  the  landscape,  while  Mount  Carmel  lifts  its  summit  in 
the  distance.  But  the  glorious  landscape  at  their  feet  is 
forgotten  in  a  sublimer  scene  that  is  passing  before  them. 
The  son  of  Mary — the  carpenter  of  Nazareth — the  wanderer 
with  whom  they  have  ate  and  drank  and  travelled  on  foot 
many  a  weary  league,  in  all  the  intimacy  of  companions  and 
friends,  begins  to  change  before  their  eyes.  Over  his  soiled 
and  coarse  garments  is  spreading  a  strange  light,  steadily 
brightening  into  intenser  beauty,  till  that  form  glows  with 
such  splendor  that  it  seems  to  waver  to  and  fro  and  dissolve 
in  the  still  radiance. 

The  three  astonished  friends  gaze  on  in  speechless  admi- 
ration, then  turn  to  that  familiar  face.  But  lo,  a  greater 
change  has  passed  over  it.  The  man  has  put  on  .the  God. 
and  that  sad  and  solemn  countenance  which  has  been  so  often 
seen  stooping  over  the- couch  of  the  dying,  and  entering  the 
door  of  the  hut  of  poverty,  and  passing  through  the  streets 
of  Jerusalem,  and  pausing  by  the  weary  wayside— aye,  be- 
dewed with  the  tears  of  pity,  now  burns  like  the  sun  in  his 
midday  splendor.  Meekness  has  given  away  to  majesty — 
sadness  to  dazzling  glory — the  look  of  pity  to  the  grandeur  of 
a  God.  The  still  radiance  of  heaven  sits  on  that  serene  brow, 
and  all  around  that  divine  form  flows  an  atmosphere  of 
strange  and  wondrous  beauty.  Heaven  has  poured  its 
brightness  over  that  consecrated  spot,  and  on  the  beams 
of  light  which  glitter  there,  Moses  and  Elias  have  descended ; 
and,  wrapped  in  the  same  shining  vestments,  Btand  beside 


MOUNT  TABOR. 


him.  Wonder  follows  wonder,  for  those  three  glittering 
forms  are  talking  with  each  other,  and  amid  the  thrilling 
accents  are  heard  the  words  "Mount  Olivet,'1  "Calvary,"'  the 
agony  and  the  death  of  the  crucifixion.  Peter,  awe-struck 
and  overcome,  feeling  also  the  influence  of  that  heavenly 
atmosphere,  and  carried  away  by  a  sudden  impulse,  says  to 
Jesus,  in  low  and  tremulous  accents  :  ;'  Tt  is  good  to  be  here  ; 
let  us  build  three  tabernacles;  one  for  thee,  one  for  Moses, 
and  one  for  Elias."  Confused  by  the  scene  and  dazzled  by 
the  splendor,  he  was  ignorant  what  he  was  saying.  Ho 
knew  not  the  meaning  of  this  sudden  appearance,  but  he 
knew  that  heaven  was  near  and  God  revealing  himself,  and 
he  felt  that  some  sacred  ceremony  would  be  appropriate  to 
the  scene;  and  while  his  bewildered  gaze  was  fixed  on  the 
three  forms  before  him,  his  unconscious  lips  murmured  forth 
the  feeling  of  his  heart.  No  wonder  a  sudden  fear  came 
over  him,  that  paralyzed  his  tongue  and  crushed  him  to  the 
earth,  when  in  the  midst  of  his  speech  he  saw  a  cloud  fall 
like  a  falling  star  from  heaven,  and,  bright  and  dazzling, 
balance  itself  over  those  forms  of  light.  Perhaps  his  indis- 
creet interruption  had  brought  this  new  messenger  down, 
and  from  its  bosom  the  thunder  and  flame  of  Sinai  were  to 
burst;  and  he  fell  on  his  face  in  silent  terror.  But  that 
cloud  was  only  a  canopy  for  its  God,  and  from  its  bright 
foldings  came  a  voice,  saying.  "This  is  beloved  Son,  in  whom 
I  am  well  pleased,  hear  ye  Him." 

How  long  the  vision  lasted  we  cannot  tell,  but  all  that 
night  did  Jesus,  with  his  friends,  stay  on  that  lonely  moun- 
tain. Of  the  conversation  that  passed  between  them  there 
we  know  nothing :  but  little  sleep,  we  imagine,  visited  their 
eyes  that  night;  and  as  they  sat  on  the  high  summit  and 
watched  the  stai-s,  as  they  rose  one  after  another  above 
the  horizon,  and  poured  her  light  over  the  dim  and  darkened 
landscape,  words  were  spoken  that  seemed  born  of  heaven, 
and  truths  never  to  be  forgotten  were  uttered  in  the  ears  of 
the  subdued  and  reverent  disciples. 

Oh,  how  different  is  heaven  and  earth !  Can  there  bo 
a  stranger  contrast  than  the  Battle  and  Transfiguration  of 
Mount  Tabor  ?  One  shudders  to  think  of  Bonaparte  and  tho 
Son  of  God  on  the  same  "mountain  :  one  with  his  wasting 
cannon  by  his  side,  and  the  other  with  Moses  and  Elias  just 
from  heaven. 

But  no  other  desecration  can  destroy  the  first  consecra- 
tion of  Mount  Tabor  ;  for  baptised  with  the  glory  of  heaven, 
and  honored  with  the  wondrous  scene  of  the  Transfiguration, 
it  btands  a  Sacred  Mountain  on  the  earth. 


THE  SHIPWRECK. 


The  Shipwreck. 

"  When  the  tide  falls,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  betrayed 
the  agony  of  fear,  though  his  words  expressed  the  renewal  of 
hope,  "we  shall  be  enabled  to  walk  to  land.1' 

"There  was  One,  and  only  One,  to  whom  the  waters 
were  the  same  as  a  dry  deck,"  returned  the  cockswain ; 
"  and  none  but  such  as  have  his  power  will  ever  be  able  to 
•walk  from  these  rocks  to  the  sands."  The  old  seaman  paused 
and  turning  his  eyes,  which  exhibited  a  mingled  expression 
of  disgust  and  compassion,  on  his  companion,  he  added,  with 
reverence, — '-Had  you  thought  more  of  him  in  fair  weather, 
your  case  would  be  less  to  be  pitied  in  this  tempest." 

u  Do  you  think  there  is  much  danger  1"  asked  Dillon. 

"  To  them  that  have  reason  to  fear  death.  Listen !  do 
you  hear  that  hollow  noise  beneath  ye  '?" 

u'Tis  the  wind,  driving  by  the  vessel!" 

'•'Tis  the  poor  thing  herself,"  said  the  affected  cock- 
swain, u  giving  her  last  groans.  The  water  is  breaking 
up  her  decks,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  the  handsomest 
model  that  ever  cut  a  wave  will  be  like  the  chips  that  fell 
from  her  timbers  in  framing!" 

;t  Why,  then,  did  you  remain  here  ?"  cried  Dillon,  wildly. 

"  To  die  in  my  coffin,  if  it  should  be  the  will  of  God," 
returned  Tom.  "  These  waves,  to  me.  are  what  the  land  is 
to  you  ;  I  was  born  on  them,  and  I  always  meant  that  they 
should  be  my  grave*" 

"  But  I — I,"  shrieked  Dillon,  "  I  am  not  ready  to  die ! — 
I  cannot  die  ! — I  will  not  die  !" 

" Poor  wretch  !"  muttered  his  companion;  "you  must 
go,  like  the  rest  of  us  ;  when  the  death-watch  is  called,  none 
can  skulk  from  the  muster." 

"  I  can  swim,"  Dillon  continued,  rushing  with  frantic 
eagerness  to  the  side  of  the  wreck.  u  Is  there  no  billet  of 
wood,  no  rope,  that  I  can  take  with  me  !'' 

"  None  ;  everything  has  been  cut  away  or  carried  off  by 
the  sea.  If  ye*  are  about  to  strive  for  your  life,  take  with  ye 
a  stout  heart  and  a  clean  conscience,  and  trust  the  rest 
to  God  !" 

11  God!"  echoed  Dillon  in  the  madness  of  his  phrensy; 
"T  know  no  God  !  there  is  no  God  that  knows  me !" 

"  Peace !"  said  the  deep  tones  of  the  cockswain,  in 
a  voice  that  seemed  to  speak  in  the  elements  ;  "  blasphemer 
peace !" 


FAYAWAY,  THE  TYPEE  GIRL.  9 

The  heavy  groaning,  produced  by  the  water  in  the 
timbers  of  the  Ariel,  at  that  moment  added  its  impulse  to 
the  raging  feeling  of  Dillon,  and  he  cast  himself  headlong 
into  the  sea. 

******** 

"  Sheer  to  port,  and  clear  the  under-tow  !  sheer  to  the 
southward !" 

Dillon  heard  the  sounds,  but  his  faculties  were  too  much 
obscured  by  terror  to  distinguish  their  object;  he,  however, 
blindly  yielded  to  the  call,  and  gradually  changed  his  direc- 
tion, until  his  face  was  once  more  turned  towards  the  vessel. 
The  current  swept  him  diagonally  by  the  rocks,  and  he  wa* 
forced  in  an  eddy,  where  he  had  nothing  to  contend  against 
but  the  waves,  whose  violence  was  much  broken  by  the 
wreck.  In  this  state  he  continued  still  to  struggle,  but 
with  a  force  that  was  too  much  weakened  to  overcome  the 
resistance  he  met.  Tom  looked  around  him  for  a  rope,  but 
all  had  gone  over  with  the  spars,  or  been  swept  away  by  the 
waves.  At  this  moment  of  disappointment  his  eyes  met  those 
of  the  desperate  Dillon.  Calm,  and  inured  to  horrors,  as- 
was  the  veteran  seaman;  he  involuntarily  passed  his  hand 
before  his  brow,  to  exclude  the  look  of  despair  he  encountered  ~T 
and  when  a  moment  afterwards,  he  removed  the  rigid  mem- 
ber, he  beheld  the  sinking  form  of  the  victim,  as  it  gradually- 
settled  in  the  ocean,  still  struggling,  with  regular,  but  impo- 
tent strokes  of  the  arms  and  feet,  to  gain  the  wreck,  and 
to  preserve  an  existence  that  had  been  so  much  abused  in 
its  hour  of  allotted  probation. 

"  He  will  soon  know  his  God,  and  learn  that  his  God 
knows  him !"  murmured  the  cockswain  to  himself  As  he 
yet  spoke,  the  wreck  of  the  Ariel  yielded  to  an  overwhelming 
sea,  and,  after  a  universal  shudder,  her  timbers  gave  way, 
and  were  swept  towards  the  cliffs,  bearing  the  body  of  the 
simple-hearted  cockswain  among  the  ruins." 

Cooper* 


Fayaway,  the  Typee  Girl. 

The  beauteous  nymph  Fayaway  was  my  particular  fa- 
vorite. Her  free  pliant  figure  was  the  perfection  of  female 
grace  and  beauty.  Her  complexion  was  a  rich  and  mantling 
olive,  and  when  watching  the  glow  upon  her  cheeks  I  could 
almost  swear  that  beneath  the  transparent  medium  there 
lurked  the  blushes  of  a  faint  vermilion.  The  face  of  this 

1* 


10  FAYAWAY,  THE  TYPEE  GIRL. 

girl  was  a  rounded  oval,  and  each  feature  as  perfectly  formed 
as  the  heart  or  imagination  of  man  could  desire.  Her  full 
lips,  when  parted  with  a  smile,  disclosed  teeth  of  dazzling 
whiteness ;  and  when  her  rosy  mouth  opened  with  a  burst  of 
merriment,  they  looked  like  the  milk-white  seeds  of  "  arta," 
a  fruit  of  the  valley,  which,  when  cleft  in  twain,  shows  them 
reposing  in  rows  on  either  side,  imbedded  in  the  red  and 
juicy  pulp.  Her  hair  of  the  deepest  brown,  parted  irregu- 
larly in  the  middle,  flowed  in  natural  ringlets  over  her 
shoulders,  and  whenever  she  chanced  to  stoop,  fell  over  and 
hid  from  view  her  lovely  bosom.  Gazing  into  the  depths  of 
her  strange  blue  eyes,  when  she  was  in  a  contemplative 
mood,  they  seemed  most  placid  yet  unfathomable ;  but 
when  illuminated  by  some  lively  emotion,  they  beamed  upon 
the  beholder  like  stars.  The  hands  of  Fayaway  were  as  soft 
and  delicate  as  those  of  any  countess ;  for  an  entire  exemp- 
tion from  rude  labor  marks  the  girlhood  and  even  prime  of  a 
Typee  woman's  life.  Her  feet,  though  wholly  exposed,  were 
as  diminutive  and  fairly  shaped  as  those  which  peep  from 
beneath  the  skirts  of  a  Lima  lady's  dress.  The  skin  of  this 
young  creature,  from  continual  ablutions  and  the  use  of  mol- 
lifying ointments,  was  inconceivably  smooth  and  soft. 

I  may  succeed,  perhaps,  in  particularising  some  of  the 
individual  features  of  Fayaway's  beauty,  but  that  gei  eral 
loveliness  of  appearance  which  they  all  contributed  to  pro- 
duce I  will  not  attempt  to  describe.  The  easy  unstudied 
graces  of  a  child  of  nature  like  this,  breathing  from  infancy 
an  atmosphere  of  perpetual  summer,  and  nurtured  by  the 
simple  fruits  of  the  earth  ;  enjoying  a  perfect  freedom  from 
care  and  anxiety,  and  removed  effectually  from  all  injurious 
tendencies,  strike  the  eye  in  a  manner  which  cannot  be  por- 
trayed. This  picture  is  no  fancy  sketch  :  it  is  drawn  from 
the  most  vivid  recollections  of  the  person  delineated. 

Were  I  asked  if  the  beauteous  form  of  Fayaway  was 
altogether  free  from  the  hideous  blemish  of  tatooing.  I  should 
be  constrained  to  answer  that  it  was  not.  But  the  practi- 
tioners of  this  barbarous  art  so  remorseless  in  their  inflic- 
tions upon  the  brawny  limbs  of  the  warriors  of  the  tribe, 
seem  to  be  conscious  that  it  needs  not  the  resources  of  their 
profession  to  augment  the  charms  of  the  nTaidens  of  the  vale. 

The  females  are  very  little  embellished  in  this  way.  and 
Fayaway,  and  all  other  young  girls  of  her  age,  were  even 
less  so  than  those  of  their  sex  more  advanced  in  years.  The 
reason  of  this  peculiarity  will  be  alluded  to  hereafter.  All 
the  tattooing  that  the  nymph  in  question  exhibited  upon  her 


FAYAWAY,  THE  TYPEE  GIRL.  11 

person  may  be  easily  described.  Three  minute  dots,  no 
bigger  than  pin-heads,  decorated  either  lip,  and  at  a  little 
distance  were  not  at  all  discernable.  Just  upon  the  fall  of  the 
shoulder  were  drawn  two  parallel  lines  half  an  inch  apart,  and 
perhaps  three  inches  in  length,  the  interval  being  filled  with 
delicately  executed  figures.  These  narrow  bands  of  tattoo- 
ing, thus  placed,  always  reminded  me  of  those  stripes  of 
gold  lace  worn  by  officers  in  undress,  and  which  are  in  lieu 
of  epaulettes  to  denote  their  rank. 

Thus  much  was  Fayaway  tattooed.  The  audacious 
hand  which  had  gone  so  far  in  its  desecrating  work  stopping 
short,  apparently  wanting  a  heart  to  proceed. 

But  [  have  omitted  to  describe  the  dress  worn  by  this 
nymph  of  the  valley. 

Fayaway — I  must  avow  the  fact — for  the  most  part 
clung  to  the  primitive  and  summer  garb  of  Eden.  But  how 
becoming  the  costume  !  It  showed  her  fine  figure  to  the 
best  possible  advantage  ;  and  nothing  could  have  been  better 
adapted  to  her  peculiar  style  of  beauty.  At  times,  when, 
rambling  among  the  groves,  or  visiting  at  the  houses  of  her 
acquaintance,  she  wore  a  tunic  of  white  tappa,  reaching 
from  her  waist  to  a  little  below  the  knees;  and  when  ex- 
posed for  any  length  of  time  to  the  sun,  she  invariably  pro- 
tected herself  from  its  rays  by  a  floating  mantle  of  the  same 
material,  loosely  gathered  about  the  person. 

As  the  beauties  of  our  own  land  delight  in  bedecking 
themselves  with  fanciful  articles  of  jewelry,  suspending  them 
from  their  ears,  hanging  them  about  their  necks,  and  clasp- 
ing them  about  their  wrists ;  so  Fayaway  and  her  compan- 
ions were  in  the  habit  of  ornamenting  themselves  with  simi- 
lar appendages. 

Flora  was  their  jeweller.  Sometimes  they  wore  neck* 
laces  of  small  carnation  flowers,  strung  like  rubies  upon  a 
fibre  of  tappa,  or  displayed  in  their  ears  a  single  white  bud, 
the  stem  thrust  backward  through  the  aperture,  and  showing 
in  front  the  delicate  petals  folded  together  in  a  beautiful 
sphere,  and  looking  like  a  drop  of  the  purest  pearl.  Chap- 
lets  too,  resembling  in  their  arrangement  the  strawberry 
coronal  worn  by  the  English  peeress,  and  composed  of  inter- 
twined leaves  and  blossoms,  often  crowned  their  temples; 
and  bracelets  and  anklets  of  the  same  tasteful  pattern  were 
frequently  to  be  seen.  Indeed,  the  maidens  of  the  Island 
•were  passionately  fond  of  flowers,  and  never  wearied  of  dec- 
orating their  persons  with  them  ;  a  lovely  trait  in  their 
character,  and  one  that  ere  long  will  be  more  fully  alluded  to. 


12  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM. 

Though,  in  my  eyes  at  least,  Fayaway  was  indisputably 
the  loveliest  female  1  saw  in  Typee.  yet  the  description  1  have 
given  of  her  will  in  some  measure  apply  to  nearly  all  the 
youthful  portion  of  her  sex  in  the  valley.  Judge  ye  then, 
reader,  what  beautiful  creatures  they  must  have  been. 

Melville. 


A  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom. 

BY  this  time  the  first  fury  of  the  tempest  had  spent  itself, 
or  perhaps  we  did  not  feel  it  so  much,  as  we  scudded  before 
it,  but  at  all  events  the  seas,  which  at  first  had  been  kept 
down  by  the  wind,  and  lay  flat  and  frothing,  now  got  up  into 
absolute  mountains.  A  singular  change,  too,  had  come 
over  the  heavens.  Around  in  every  direction  it  was  still  as 
black  as  pitch,  but  nearly  overhead  there  burst  out,  all  at 
once,  a  circular  rift  of  clear  sky — as  clear  as  I  ever  saw — 
and  of  a  deep  bright  blue — and  through  it  there  blazed  forth 
the  full  moon  with  the  lustre  that  I  never  before  knew  her 
to  wear.  She  lit  up  every  thing  about  us  with  the  greatest 
distinctness — but,  oh  God,  what  a  scene  it  was  to  light  up! 

I  now  made  one  or  two  attempts  to  speak  to  my  brother 
— but,  in  some  manner  which  I  could  not  understand,  the 
din  had  so  increased  that  I  could  not  make  him  hear  a  single 
word,  although  1  screamed  at  the  top  of  my  voice  in  his  ear. 
Presently  he  shook  his  head,  looking  as  pale  as  death,  and 
held  up  one  of  his  fingers,  as  if  to  say  l listen. n 

At  first  1  could  not  make  out  what  he  meant — but  soon 
a  hideous  thought  flashed  upon  me.  I  dragged  my  watch 
from  its  fob.  It  was  not  going.  I  glanced  at  its  face  by  the 
moonlight,  and  then  burst  into  tears  as  I  flung  it  far  away 
into  the  ocean.  It  had  run  down  at  seven  o'clock!  We 
were  behind  the  time  of  the  slack,  and  the  whirl  of  the  Strom 
was  in  full  fury  ! 

When  a  boat  is  well  built,  properly  trimmed,  and  not 
deep  laden,  the  waves  in  a  strong  gale,  when  she  is  going 
large,  seem  always  to  slip  from  beneath  her — which  appears 
very  strange  to  a  landsman — and  this  is  what  is  called  riding, 
in  a  sea  phrase.  Well,  so  far  we  had  ridden  the  swell  very 
cleverly;  but  presently  a  gigantic  sea  happ3ned  to  take  us 
right  under  the  counter,  and  bore  us  with  it  as  it  rose — up — 
up — as  if  into  the  eky.  I  would  not  have  believed  that  any 
wave  oould  rise  so  high.  And  then  down  we  came  with  a 


DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM.  13 


sweep,  a  slide,  and  a  plunge,  that  made  me  feel  sick  and 
dizzy,  as  if  I  was  falling  from  some  lofty  mountain-top  in  a 
dream.  But  while  we  were  up  I  had  thrown  a  quick  glance 
around— and  that  one  glance  was  all  sufficient.  I  saw  our 
exact  position  in  an  instant.  The  JVJoskoe-strom,  whirl- 
pool was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dead  ahead — but  no  moro 
like  the-every-day  Moskoe-strom,  than  the  whirl,  as  you  now 
see  it.  is  like  a  mill-race.  If  I  had  not  known  where  we 
were  and  what  we  had  to  expect,  I  should  not  have  recog- 
nised the  place  at  all.  As  it  was,  I  involuntarily  closed  my 
eyes  in  horror.  The  lids  clenched  themselves  together  as  if 
in  a  spasm. 

It  could  not  have  been  more  than  two  minutes  afterward 
until  we  suddenly  felt  the  waves  subside,  and  were  envel- 
oped in  foam.  The  boat  made  a  sharp  half  turn  to  larboard, 
and  then  shot  off  in  its  new  direction  like  a  thunderbolt. — 
At  the  same  moment  the  roaring  noise  of  the  water  was  com- 
pletely drowned  in  a  kind  of  shrill  shriek — such  a  sound  as- 
you  might  imagine  given  out  by  the  waste-pipes  of  many 
thousand  steam-vessels,  letting  off  their  steam  all  together. 
We  were  now  in  the  belt  of  surf  that  always  surrounds  the 
whirl ;  and  I  thought,  of  course,  that  another  moment  would 
plunge  us  into  the  abyss — down  which  we  could  only  see  in- 
distinctly on  account  of  the  amazing  velocity  with  which  we 
were  borne  along.  The  boat  did  not  seem  to  sink  into  the- 
water  at  all,  but  to  skim  like  an  air-bubble  upon  the  surface- 
of  the  surge.  Her  starboard  side  was  next  to  the  whirl,  and 
on  the  larboard  arose  the  world  of  ocean  we  had  left.  It 
stood  like  a  huge  writhing  wall  between  us  and  the  horizon. 

It  may  appear  strange,  but  now,  when  we  were  in  the 
very  jaws  of  the  gulf,  I  felt  more  composed  than  when  w&  * 
were  only  approachiug  it.  Having  made  up  my  mind  to- 
hope  no  more,  I  got  rid  of  a  good  deal  of  that  terror  which 
unmanned  me  at  first.  I  suppose  it  was  despair  that  strung 
my  nerves. 

Tt  may  look  like  boasting — but  what  I  tell  you  is  truth — 
I  began  to  reflect  how  magnificent  a  thing  it  was  to  die  in 
such  a  manner,  and  how  foolish  it  was  for  me  to  think  of  so 
paltry  a  consideration  as  my  own  individual  life,  in  view  of 
so  wonderful  a  manifestation  of  God's  power.  I  do  believe 
that  1  blushed  with  shame  when  this  idea  crossed  my  mind. 
After  a  little  while  I  be  came  possessed  with  the  keenest 
curiosity  about  the  whirl  itself.  I  positively  felt  a  wish  to 
explore  its  depths,  even  at  the  sacrifice  I  was  going  to 
raako ;  and  my  principal  grief  was  that  I  should  never 


14  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM. 

be  able  to  tell  ray  old  companions  on  shore  about  the  mys- 
teries I  should  see.  These,  no  doubt, -were  singular  fancies 
to  occupy  a  man's  mind  in  such  extremity — and  1  have  often 
thought  since,  that  the  revolutions  of  the  boat  around  the 
pool  mi^ht  have  rendered  me  a  little  light-headed. 

There  was  another  circumstance  which  tended  to  restore 
my  self-possession  ;  and  this  was  the  cessation  of  the  wind, 
•which  could  not  reach  us  in  our  present  situation — for  the 
belt  of  the  surf  is  considerable  lower  tha"h  the  general  bed  of 
the  ocean,  and  this  latter  now  towered  above  us,  a  high, 
black  mountainous  ridge.  If  you  have  never  been  at  sea  in 
a  heavy  gale,  you  can  form  no  idea  of  the  confusion  of  mind 
occasioned  by  the  wind  and  spray  together.  They  blind, 
deafen,  and  strangle  you,  and  take  away  all  power  of  action 
•or  reflection.  But  we  were  now  in  a  great  measure,  rid  of 
these  annoyances— just  as  death-condemned  felons  in  prison 
are  allowed  petty  indulgences,  forbidden  them  while  their 
doom  is  yet  uncertain. 

How  often  we  made  the  circuit  of  the  belt  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  say.  We  careered  round  and  round  for  perhaps  an 
hour,  flying  rather  than  floating,  getting  gradually  more  and 
more  into  the  middle  of  the  surge,  and  then  nearer  and 
nearer  to  its  horrible  inner  edge.  All  this  time  I  had  never 
let  go  of  the  ring-bolt.  My  brother  was  at  the  stern,  holding 
on  to  a  small  empty  water-cask  which  had  been  securely 
lashed  under  the  coop  of  the  counter,  and  was  the  only  thing 
on  deck  that  had  not  been  swept  overboard  when  the  gale 
first  took  us.  As  we  approached  the  brink  of  the  pit  he  let 
go  his  hold  upon  this,  and  made  for  the  ring,  from  which,  in 
the  agony  of  his  terror,  he  endeavored  to  force  my  hands,  as 
it  was  not  large  enough  to  afford  up  both  a  secure  grasp.  I 
never  felt  a  deeper  grief  than  when  I  saw  him  attempt  this 
act— although  1  knew  he  was  a  madman  when  he  did  it— a 
raving  maniac  through  sheer  fright.  I  did  not  care,  however, 
to  contest  the  point  with  him.  I  knew  it  could  make  no 
difference  whether  either  of  us  held  on  at  all ;  so  I  let  him 
have  the  bolt,  and  went  astern  to  the  cask.  This  there  was 
no  great  difficulty  in  doing ;  for  the  smack  flew  round  stead- 
ily enough,  and  upon  an  even  keel — only  swaying  to  and  fro, 
with  the  immense  sweeps  and  swelters  of  the  whirl.  Scarcely 
had  I  secured  myself  in  my  new  position,  when  we  gave  a 
wild  lurch  to  starboard,  and  rushed  headlong  into  the  abyss, 
I  muttered  a  hurried  prayer  to  God,  and  thought  all  was 
over. 

As  I  felt  the  sickening  sweep  of  the  deseed,  I  had  in- 


DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM.  16 

stinctively  tightened  ray  hold  upon  the  barrel,  and  closed  my 
eyes.  I"  or  some  seconds  I  dared  not  open  them — while  1 
expected  instant  destruction,  and  wondered  that  I  was  not 
already  in  my  death-struggles  with  the  water.  But  moment 
after  moment  elapsed.  1  still  lived.  The  sense  of  falling 
had  ceased;  and  the  motion  of 'the  vessel  seemed  much  as  it 
had  been  before,  while  in  the  belt  of  foam,  with  the  exception 
that  sbe  now  lay  more  along.  I  took  courage  and  looked 
once  again  upon  the  scene. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  sensations  of  awe,  horror,  and 
admiration  with  which  1  gazed  about  me.  The  boat  appeared 
to  be  hanging,  as  if  by  magic,  midway  down,  upon  the  inte- 
rior surface  of  a  funnel  vast  in  circumference,  prodigious  in 
depth  and  whose  perfectly  smooth  sides  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  ebony,  but  for  the  bewildering  rapidity  with 
•which  they  spun  around,  and  for  the  gleaming  and'  ghastly 
radiance  they  shot  forth,  as  the  rays  of  the  full  moon,  from 
that  circular  rift  amid  the  clouds  which  I  have  already 
described,  streamed  in  a  flood  of  golden  glory  along  the 
black  walls,  and  far  away  down  into  the  inmost  recesses  of 
the  abyss. 

At  first  I  was  too  much  confused  to  observe  anything 
accurately.  The  general  burst  of  terrific  grandeur  was  all 
that  I  beheld.  When  I  recovered  myself  a  little,  however, 
my  gaze  fell  instintively  downward.  In  this  direction  1  was 
able  to  obtain  an  unobstructed  view,  from  the  manner  in 
which  the  smack  hung  on  the  inclined  surface  of  the  pool. — 
She  was  quite  upon  an  even  keel  — that  is  to  say,  her  deck 
lay  in  a  plane  parallel  with  that  of  the  water— but  this  latter 
sloped  at  an  angle  of  more  than  forty-five  degrees,  so  that  we 
seemed  to  be  laying  upon  our  beam-ends.  1  could  not  help 
observing,  nevertheless,  that  I  had  scarcely  more  difficulty  in 
maintaining  my  hold  and  footing  in  this  situation,  than  if 
we  had  been  a  dead  level ;  and  this,  1  suppose,  was  owing 
to  the  speed  at  which  we  revolved. 

The  rays  of  the  moon  seemed  to  search  the  very  bottom 
of  the  profound  gulf;  but  still  I  could  make  out  nothing 
distinctly,  on  account  of  a  thick  mist  in  which  every  thing 
there  was  enveloped,  and  over  which  there  hung  a  magnifi- 
cent rainbow,  like  that  narrow  and  tottering  bridge  which 
Mussulmen  say  is  the  only  pathway  between  Time  and  Eter- 
nity. The  mist,  or  spray,  was  no  doubt  occasioned  by  the 
clashing  of  the  great  walls  of  the  funnel,  as  they  all  met 
together  at  the  bottom — but  the  yell  that  went  up  to  the 
Heavens  from  out  of  that  mist,  I  dare  not  attempt  to  describe. 


16  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM. 

Our  first  slide  into  the  abyss  itself,  from  the  belt  of  foam 
above,  had  carried  us  a  great  distance  down  the  slope  ;  but 
our  farther  descent  was  by  no  means  proportionate.  Round 
and  round  we  swept — not  with  any  uniform  movement — but 
in  dizzying  swings  and  jerk*  that  sent  us  sometimes  only  a 
few  hundred  yards — sometimes  nearly  the  complete  circuit 
of  the  whirl.  Our  progress  downward,  at  each  revolution, 
•was  slow,  but  very  perceptible. 

Looking  about  me  upon  the  wide  waste  of  liquid  ebony 
on  which  we  were  thus  borne,  I  perceived  that  our  boat  was 
not  the  only  object  in  the  embrace  of  the  whirl.  Both  above 
and  below  us  were  visible  fragments  pf  vessels,  large  masses 
of  building  timber  and  trunks  of  trees,  with  many  smaller 
articles,  such  as  pieces  of  house  furniture,  broken  boxes, 
barrels  and  staves.  I  have  already  described  the  unnatural 
curiosity  which  had  taken  the  place  of  my  original  terrors. 
It  appeared  to  grow  upon  me  as  I  drew  nearer  and  nearer 
to  my  dreadful  doom.  I  now  began  to  watch,  with  a  strange 
interest,  the  numerous  things  that  floated  in  our  company. 
I  must  have  been  been  delirious— for  1  even  sought  amuse- 
ment in  speculating  upon  the  relative  velocities  of  their  seve- 
ral descents  towards  the  foam  below.  'This  fir  tree,1 1  found 
myself  at  one  time  saying,  '  will  certainly  be  the  next  thing 
that  takes  the  awful  plunge  and  disappears,' — and  then  1 
•was  disappointed  to  find  that  the  wreck  of  a  Dutch  merchant 
ship  overtook  it  and  went  down  before.  At  length,  after 
making  several  guesses  of  this  nature,  and  being  deceived  in 
all — this  fact — the  fact  of  my  invariable  miscalculation — set 
me  upon  a  train  of  reflection  that  made  my  limbs  again 
tremble,  and  my  heart  beat  heavily  once  more. 

It  was  not  a  new  terror  that  thus  affected  me,  but  the 
dawn  of  a  more  exciting  hope.  This  hope  arose  partly  from 
memory  and  partly  from  present  observation.  I  called  to 
mind  the  great  variety  of  buoyant  matter  that  strewed  the 
coast  of  Lofoden,  having  been  absorbed  and  then  thrown 
forth  by  the  Moskoe-strom.  By  far  the  greater  number  of 
the  articles  were  shattered  in  the  most  extraordinary  way — 
so  chafed  and  roughened  as  to  have  the  appearance  of  being 
stuck  full  of  splinters— but  then  I  distinctly  recollected  that 
there  were  some  of  them  which  were  not  disfigured  at  all. — 
Now  I  could  not  account  for  this  difference  except  by  suppo- 
sing that  the  roughened  fragments  were  the  only  ones  which 
had  been  completely  absorbed — that  the  others  had  entered 
the  whirl  at  so  late  a  period  of  the  tide,  or  for  some  reason, 
had  descended  so  slowly  after  entering,  that  they  did  not 


DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM.  17 

reach  the  bottom  before  the  turn  of  the  flood  came,  or  of 
the  ebb,  as  the  case  might  be.  I  conceived  it  possible,  in 
either  instance,  that  they  might  thus  be  whirled  up  again  to 
the  level  of  the  ocean,  without  undergoing  the  fate  of  those 
which  had  been  drawn  in  more  early,  or  absorbed  more  rap- 
idly. I  made,  also,  three  important  observations.  The  first 
was,  that,  as  a  general  rule,  the  larger  the  bodies  were,  the 
more  rapid  their  descent— the  second,  that  between  two 
masses  of  equal  extent,  the  one  spherical,  and  the  other  of 
any  other  shape,  the  superiority  in  the  speed  of  descent  was 
with  the  sphere— the  third  that  between  two  masses  of  equal 
size,  the  one  cylindrical,  and  the  other  of  any  other  shape,  the 
cylinder  was  absorbed  the  more  slowly.  Since  my  escape, 
I  have  had  sever  il  conversations  on  this  subject  with  an  old 
school-master  of  the  district ;  and  it  was  from  him  that  I 
learned  the  use  of  the  words  'cylinder'  and  'sphere.'  He 
explained  to  me — although  I  have  forgotten  the  explanation 
— how  what  I  observed  was,  in  fact  the  natural  consequence 
of  the  forms  of  the  floating  fragments — and  showed  me  how 
it  happened  that  a  cylinder,  swimming  in  a  vortex,  offered 
more  resistance  to  its  suction,  and  was  drawn  in  with  greater 
difficulty  than  an  equally  bulky  body,  of  any  form  whatever. 

There  was  one  startling  circumstance  which  went  a 
great  way  in  enforcing  these  observations,  and  rendering  me 
anxious  to  turn  them  to  account,  and  this  was  that,  at  every 
revolution,  we  passed  something  like  a  barrel,  or  else  the  yard 
or  the  mast  of  a  vessel,  while  many  of  these  things,  which 
had  been  on  our  level  when  I  first  opened  my  eyes  upon  the 
wonders  of  the  whirlpool,  were  now  high  above  us,  and 
seemed  to  have  moved  but  little  from  their  original  station. 

I  no  longer  hesitated  what  to  do.  I  resolved  to  lash 
myself  securely  to  the  water  cask  upon  which  I  now  held,  to 
cut  it  loose  from  the  counter,  and  to  throw  myself  with  it  into 
the  water.  I  attracted  my  brother's  attention  by  s'gne, 
pointed  to  the  floating  barrels  that  came  near  us,  and  did 
everything  in  my  power  to  make  him  understand  what  I  was 
about  to  do.  I  thought  at  length  that  he  comprehended  my 
design — but.  whether  this  was  the  case  or  not,  he  shook  his 
head  despairingly,  and  refused  to  move  from  his  station  by 
the  ring-bolt.  It  was  impossible  to  reach  him  ;  the  emer- 
gency admitted  of  no  delay  •  and  so  with  a  bitter  struggle, 
I  resigned  him  to  his  fate,  fastened  myself  to  the  cask  by 
means  of  the  lashings  which  secured  it  to  the  counter,  and 
precipitated  myself  with  it  into  the  sea,  without  another 


18  THE  LOST  COMRADE. 


moment's  hesitation.     The  result  was  precisely  what  I  had 
hoped  it  might  be.  Poc. 


A  Hunt  for  a  lost  Comrade. 

THE  morning  dawned,  and  an  hour  or  two  passed  without 
any  tidings  of  the  Count.  We  began  to  feel  uneasiness  lest, 
having  no  compass  to  aid  him,  he  might,  perplex  himself 
and  wander  in  some  opposite  direction.  Stragglers  are 
thus  often  lost  for  days  ;  what  made  us  more  anxious  about 
him  was,  that  he  had  no  provisions  with  him,  was  totally 
unversed  in  "  wood  craft,"  and  liable  to  fall  into  the  hands 
of  some  lurking  or  straggling  party  of  savages. 

As  soon  as  our  people,  therefore,  had  made  their  break- 
fast, we  beat  up  for  volunteers  for  a  cruise  in  search  of  the 
Count.  A  dozen  of  the  rangers,  mounted  on  some  of  the 
best  and  freshest  horses,  and  armed  with  rifles,  were  soon 
ready  to  start ;  our  half-breeds  Beatte  and  Antoine  also, 
with  our  little  mongrel  Frenchman,  were  zealous  in  the 
cause  ;  so  Mr.  L.  and  myself  taking  the  lead,  to  show  the 
way  to  the  scene  of  our  little  hunt,  where  we  had  parted 
company  with  the  Count,  we  all  set  out  across  the  prairie. — 
A  ride  of  a  couple  miles  brought  us  to  the  carcasses  of  the 
two  buffaloes  we  had  killed.  A  legion  of  ravenous  wolves 
were  already  gorging  upon  them.  At  our  approach  they 
reluctantly  drew  off,  skulking  with  a  caitiff  look  to  the  dis- 
tance of  a  few  hnndred  yards,  and  there  awaiting  our  de- 
parture, that  they  might  return  to  their  banquet. 

I  conducted  Beatte  and  Antoine  to  the  spot  whence  the 
young  Count  had  contiuned  the  chase  alone.  It  was  like 
putting  hounds  upon  the  scent.  They  immediately  distin- 
guished the  track  of  his  horse  amidst  the  trampings  of  the 
buffaloes,  and  set  off  at  a  round  pace,  following  with  the 
eye  in  nearly  a  straight  course,  for  upwards  of  a  mile,  when 
they  came  to  where  the  herd  had  divided,  and  run  hither 
and  thither  about  a  meadow.  Here  the  track  of  the  horse's 
hoofs  wandered  and  doubled  and  often  crossed  each  other; 
our  half-breeds  were  like  hounds  at  fault.  While  we  were 
at  a  halt,  waiting  until  they  should  unravel  the  maze, 


THE  LOST  COMRADE.  19 

Beatte  suddenly  gave  a  short  Indian  whoop,  or  rather  yelp, 
and  pointed  to  a  distant  hill.  On  regarding  it  attentively, 
we  perceived  a  horseman  on  the  summit.  u  It  is  the  Count !" 
cried  Beatte,  and  set  off  at  full  gallop,  followed  by  the  whole 
company.  In  a  few  moments  he  checked  his  horse.  Ano- 
ther figure  on  horseback  had  appeared  on  the  brow  of  the 
hill.  This  completely  altered  the  case.  The  Count  had 
wandered  off  alone;  no  other  person  had  been  missing  from 
the  camp.  If  one  of  these  horsemen  were  indeed  the  Count, 
the  other  must  be  an  Indian.  If  an  Indian,  in  all  probability 
a  Pawnee.  Perhaps  they  were  both  Indians  ;  scouts  of  some 
party  lurking  in  the  vicinity.  While  these  and  other  sug- 
gestions were  hastily  discussed,  the  two  horsemen  glided 
down  from  the  profile  of  the  hill,  and  we  lost  sight  of  them. 
One  of  the  rangers  suggested  that  there  might  be  a  strag- 
gling party  of  Pawnees  behind  the  hill,  and  that  the  Count 
might  have  fallen  into  their  hands.  The  idea  had  an  electric 
effect  upon  the  little  troop.  In  an  instant  every  horse  was  at 
full  speed,  the  half-breeds  leading  the  way;  the  young  rang- 
ers as  they  rode  set  up  wild  yelps  of  exultation  ac  the 
thoughts  of  having  a  brush  with  the  Indians.  •  A  neck  or 
nothing  gallop  brought  us  to  the  skirts  of  the  hill,  and  re- 
vealed our  mistake.  In  a  ravine  we  found  the  two  horsemen 
standing  by  the  carcass  of  a  buffalo  which  they  had  killed. 
They  proved  to  ba  two  rangers,  who,  unperceived,  had  leffc 
the  camp  a  little  before  us,  and  had  come  here  in  a  direct 
line,  while  we  had  made  a  wide  circuit  about  the  prairie. 

This  episode  being  at  an  end,  and  the  sudden  excite- 
ment being  over,  we  slowly  and  coolly  retraced  our  steps  to 
the  meadow;  but  it  was  some  time  before  our  half-breeds 
could  again  get  on  the  track  of  the  Count.  Having  at 
length  found  it,  they  succeeded  in  following  it  through  all 
its  doublings,  until  they  came  to  where  it  was  no  longer 
mingled  with  the  tramp  of  Buffaloes,  but  became  single 
and  separate,  wandering  here  and  there  about  the  prai- 
ries, but  always  tending  in  a  direction  opposite  to  that 
of  the  camp.  Here  the  Count  had  evidently  given  up  the 
pursuit  of  the  herd,  and  had  endeavored  to  find  his  way  to 
the  encampment,  but  had  become  bewildered  as  the  evening 
shades  thickened  around  him,  and  had  completely  mistaken 
the  points  of  the  compass. 

In  all  this  quest  our  half-breeds  displayed  that  quickness 
of  eye,  in  following  up  a  track,  for  which  Indians  are  so 
noted.  Beatte,  especially,  was  as  staunch  as  a  veteran 


20  THE  LOST  COMRADE, 

hound.  Sometimes  he  would  keep  forward  on  an  easy  trot ; 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  a  little  ahead  of  his  horse,  clearly 
distinguishing  prints  in  the  herbage,  which  to  me  were  in- 
visihle,  except  on  the  closest  inspection.  Sometimes  he 
would  pull  up  and  walk  his  horse  slowly,  regarding  the 
ground  intensely,  where  to  my  eye  nothing  was  apparent. — 
Then  he  would  dismount,  lead  his  "horse  by  the  bridle,  and 
advance  cautiously  step  by  step,  with  his  face  bent  toward 
the  earth,  just  catching  here  and  there,  a  casual  indication 
of  the  vaguest  kind  to  guide  him  onward.  In  some  places 
where  the  soil  was  hard,  and  the  grass  withered,  he  would 
lose  the  track  entirely,  and  wander  backwards  and  forwards, 
and  right  and  left,  in  search  of  it;  returning  occasionally  to 
the  place  where  he  had  lost  sight  of  it,  to  take  a  new  departure. 
If  this  failed  he  would  examine  the  banks  of  the  neighboring 
streams,  or  the  sandy  bottoms  of  the  ravines,  in  hopes  of 
finding  tracks  where  the  Count  had  crossed.  When  he  again 
came  upon  the  track  he  would  remount  his  horse,  and  resume 
his  onward  course.  At  length  after  crossing  a  stream,  in 
the  crumbling  banks  of  which  the  hoofs  of  the  horse  were 
deeply  dented,  we  came  upon  a  high  dry  prairie,  where  our 
half-breeds  were  completely  baffled.  Not  a  foot-print  was 
to  be  discerned,  though  they  searched  in  every  direction; 
and  Beatte  at  length  coming  to  a  pause,  shook  his  head 
despondingly. 

Just  then  a  small  herd  of  deer,  roused  from  a  neighbor- 
ing ravine,  came  bounding  by  us.  'Beatte  sprang  from  hia 
horse  and  levelled  his  rifle,  and  wounded  one  slightly,  but 
without  bringing  it  to  the  ground.  The  report  of  the  rifle 
was  almost  immediately  followed  by  a  long  halloo  from  a 
a  distance.  We  looked  around  but  could  see  nothing. — 
Another  long  halloo  was  heard,  and  at  length  a  horseman 
was  descried,  emerging  out  of  a  skirt  of  forest.  A  single 
glance  showed  him  to  be  the  young  Count;  there  was  a 
universal  shout  and  scamper,  every  one  setting  off  full  gallop 
to  greet  him.  It  was  a  joyful  meeting  to  both  parties;  for, 
much  anxiety  had  been  felt  by  us  all  on  account  ot  his  youth 
and  inexperience,  and  for  his  part  with  all  his  love  of 
adventure,  he  seemed  right  glad  to  be  once  more  among  his 
friends. 

As  we  supposed,  he  had  completely  mistaken  his  course 
on  the  preceding  evening,  and  had  wandered  about  until 
dark  when  he  thought  of  bivouacking.  The  night  was  cold 
yet  he  feared  to  make  a  fire,  lest  it  might  betray  him  to  some 


EULOGY  ON  MADISON.  21 

lurking  party  of  Indians.  Hobbling  his  horse  with  his  pocket 
handkerchief,  and  leaving  him  to  graze  on  the  margin  of  the 
prairie,  he  clambered  into  a  tree,  fixed  his  saddle  in  the  fork 
of  the  branches,  and  placing  himself  securely  with  his  back 
against  the  trunk,  prepared  to  pass  a  dreary  and  anxious 
night,  regaled  occasionally  with  the  howlings  of  the  wolves. 
He  was  agreeably  disappointed.  The  fatigue  of  the  day  soon 
brought  on  a  sound  sleep  ;  he  had  delightful  dreams  about 
his  home  in  Switzerland,  nor  did  he  wake  until  it  was  broad 
daylight. 

He  then  descended  from  his  roosting-place,  mounted  his 
horse,  and  rode  to  the  naked  summit  of  a  hill,  whence  he 
beheld  a  trackless  wilderness  around  him,  but  at  no  great 
distance,  the  Grand  Canadian,  winding  its  way  between  bor- 
ders of  forest  land.  The  sight  of  this  river  consoled  him  with 
the  idea  that,  should  he  fail  in  finding  his  way  back  to  the 
camp,  or,  in  being  found  by  some  party  of  his  comrades,  he 
might  follow  the  course  of  the  stream,  which  could  not  fail  to 
conduct  him  to  some  frontier  post,  or  Indian  hamlet.  So 
closed  the  events  of  our  hap-hazard  buffalo  hunt. 

Irving. 


Extract  from  Adam's  Eulogy  on  Madison. 

AND  what  my  friends  and  fellow  citizens— what  is  our 
duty  to  our  own  ?  Is  it  not  to  preserve,  to  cherish,  to  improve 
the  inheritance  which  they  have  left  us — won  by  their  toils — 
watered  by  their  tears — saddened  but  fertilized  by  their 
blood  ?  Are  we  the  sons  of  worthy  sires,  and  in  the 
onward  march  of  time  have  they  achieved  in  the  career  of 
human  improvement  so  much,  only  that  our  posterity  and 
theirs  may  blush  for  the  contrast  between  their  unexampled 
energies  and  our  nerveless  impotence  ?  between  their  more 
than  Herculanean  labors  and  our  indolent  repose  ?  No,  my 
fellow  citizen,  far  be  from  us ;  far  be  from  you,  for  he  who 
now  addresses  you  has  but  a  few  short  days  before  he  shall 
be  called  to  join  the  multitude  of  ages  past — far  be  from 
you  the  reproach  or  suspicion  of  such  a  degrading  contrast. 
You  too  have  the  solemn  duty  to  perform,  of  improving  the 
condition  of  your  species,  by  improving  your  own.  Not  in 
the  great  and  strong  wind  of  a  revolution,  which  rent  the 
mountains  and  break  in  pieces  the  rocks  before  the  Lord — 
for  the  Lord  is  not  in  the  wind— not  in  the  earthquake  of  a 
revolutionary  war,  marching  to  the  onset  between  the  battle 


22  CATHARINA,  EMPRESS  OF  RUSSIA. 

field  and  the  scaffold — for  the  Lord  is  not  in  the  earthquake 
— notin^the  fire  of  civil  dissension — in  war  between  the 
members  and  the  head — in  nullification  of  the  laws  of  the 
Union  by  the  forcible  resistance  of  one  refractory  State — for 
the  Lord  is  not  in  the  fire ;  and  that  fire  was  never  kindled 
by  your  fathers  !  No !  it  is  in  the  still  small  voice  that 
succeeded  the  whirlwind,  the  earthquake  and  the  fire.  The 
voice  that  stills  the  raging  of  the  waves  and  the  tumults  of 
the  people— that  spoke  the  words  of  peace — of  harmony — 
of  union.  And  for  that  voice,  may  you  and  your  children's 
children,  "  to  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time,"  fix  your 
eyes  upon  the  memory,  and  listen  with  your  ears  to  the  life 
of  James  Madison. 


Catharina,  Empress  of  Russia. 

CATHAP.INA  ALRXOWNA,  born  near  Derpat,  a  little  city 
in  Livonia,  was  heir  to  no  other  inheritance  than  the  virtues 
and  frugality  of  her  parents.  Her  father  being  dead,  she 
lived  with  her  aged  mother,  in  her  cottage  covered  with 
straw,  and  both,  though  very  poor,  were  very  contented. — 
Here,  retired  from  the  gaze  of  the  world,  by  the  labor  of  her 
hands  she  supported  her  parent,  who  was  now  incapable  of 
supporting  herself. 

Though  Catharina's  face  and  person  were  models  ot 
perfection,  vet  her  whole  attention  seemed  bestowed  upon 
Iier  mind.  Her  mother  taught  her  to  read,  and  an  old  Lu- 
theran minister  instructed  her  in  the  maxims  and  duties  of 
religion.  Nature  had  furnished  her  not  only  with  a  ready, 
but  a  solid  turn  of  thought;  not  only  with  a  strong,  but  a 
right  understanding. 

Catharina  was  fifteen  years  old  when  her  mother  died. 
She  then  left  her  cottage,  and  went  to  live  with  the  Luther- 
an minister,  by  whom  she  had  heen  instructed  from  her 
childhood.  In  his  house  she  resided  in  quality  of  governess 
to  his  children  ;  at  once  reconciling  in  her  character,  uner- 
ring prudence  with  surprising  vivachy.  The  old  man,  who 
regarded  her  as  one  of  his  own  children,  had  her  instructed 


CATHARINA,  EMPRESS  OF  RUSSIA.  28 

ip  the  elegant  parts  of  female  education,  by  the  masters  who 
attended  the  rest  of  his  family. 

Thus  she  continued  to  improve  until  he  died ;  by  which 
accident  she  was  reduced  to  her  former  poverty.  The  coun- 
try of  Livonia  was  at  that  time  wasted  by  war,  and  lay  in  a 
miserable  state  of  desolation.  Those  calamities  are  ever 
most  heavy  upon  the  poor;  wherefore,  Catharina,  though 
possessed  of  so  many  accomplishments,  experienced  all  the 
miseries  of  hopeless  indigence.  Provisions  becoming  every 
day  more  scarce,  and  her  private  stock  being  entirely  ex- 
hausted, she  resolved  at  last  to  travel  to  Marienburgh,  a  city 
of  greater  plenty. 

With  the  effects  of  her  scanty  wardrobe  packed  up  in 
a  wallet,  she  set  out  on  her  journey  on  foot.  She  was  to 
walk  through  a  region,  miserable  by  nature,  but  rendered 
still  more  hideous  by  the  Swedes  and  Russians,  who,  as 
each  happened  to  become  masters,  plundered  it  at  discre- 
tion :  but  hunger  had  taught  her  to  despise  the  danger  and 
fatigues  of  the  way.  One  evening  upon  her  journey,  as  she 
had  entered  a  cottage  by  the  way-side,  to  take  up  her  lodg. 
ing  for  the  ni^ht,  she  was  insulted  by  two  Swedish  soldiers. 

They  might,  probably,  have  carried  their  insults  into 
violence,  had  not  a  subaltern  officer,  accidentally  passing 
by,  come  to  her  assistance.  Upon  his  appearing,  the  soldiers 
immediately  desisted;  but  her  thankfulness  was  hardly 
greater  than  her  surprise,  when  she  instantly  recollected  in 
ker  deliverer,  the  son  of  the  Lutheran  minister,  her  former 
instructor,  benefactor,  and  friend. 

This  was  a  happy  interview  for  Catharina.  The  little 
stock  of  money  she  had  brought  from  home  was  by  this  time 
quite  exhausted  ;  her  clothes  were  gone,  piece  by  piece,  in 
order  to  satisfy  those  who  had  entertained  her  in  their 
houses:  her  generous  countryman,  therefore,  parted  with 
what  he  could  spare  to  buy  her  clothes  ;  furnished  her  with 
a  horse ;  and  gave  her  letters  of  recommendation  to  a  faithful 
friend  of  his  father,  the  superintendent  of  Marienburgh. 

The  beautiful  stranger  was  well  received  at  Marien- 
burgh. She  was  immediately  admitted  into  the  superin 
tendent's  family,  as  governess  to  his  two  daughters ;  and 
though  but  seventeen,  showed  herself  capable  of  instructing 
her  sex,  not  only  in  virtue,  but  in  politeness.  Such  were  her 
good  sense  and  beauty,  that  her  master  himself  in  a  short 
time  offered  her  his  hand,  which  to  his  great  surprise  she 
thought  proper  to  refuse.  Actuated  by  a  principle  of  grati- 


24          CATHARINA;  EMPRESS  OF  RUSSIA. 

tude,  she  resolved  to  marry  her  deliverer  -only,  though  he 
had  lost  an  arm,  and  was  otherwise  disfigured  by  wound* 
received  in  the  service. 

In  order,  therefore,  to  prevent  further  solicitations  from 
others,  as  soon  as  the  officer  came  to  town  upon  duty,  she 
offered  him  her  hand  which  he  accepted  with  joy,  and  theii 
nuptials  were  accordingly  solemnized.  But  all  the  line* 
of  her  fortune  were  to  be  striking.  The  very  day  on  whict 
they  were  married,  the  Russians  laid  siege  to  Marienburgh ; 
'and  the  unhappy  soldier  was  immediately  ordered  to  an  at- 
tack from  which  he  never  returned. 

In  the  meantime  the  siege  went  on  with  fury,  aggra- 
vated on  one  side  by  obstinacy,  on  the  other  by  revenge. — 
The  war  between  the  two  northern  powers  at  that  time  was 
truly  barbarous:  the  innocent  peasant,  and  the  harmless 
virgin,  often  shared  the  fate  of  the  soldier  in  arms.  Mari- 
enburgh was  taken  by  assault;  and  such  was  the  fury  of  the 
assailants,  that  not  only  the  garrison,  but  almost  all  the  in- 
habitants, men,  women,  and  children  were  put  to  the  sword. 
At  length,  when  the  carnage  was  pretty  well  over,  Caiha- 
rina  was^bund  hid  in  an  oven. 

She  had  hitherto  been  poor,  but  free  ;  she  was  now  to 
conform  to  her  hard  fate,  and  learn  what  it  was  to  be  a  slave. 
In  this  situation,  however,  she  behaved  with  piety  and  hu- 
mility; and  though  misfortunes  had  abated  her  vivacity,  yet 
she  was  cheerful.  The  fame  of  her  merit  and  resignation, 
reached  even  prince  Menzikoff,  the  Russian  general.  He 
desired  to  see  her;  was  pleased  with  her  appearance,  bought 
her  from  the  soldier,  her  master ;  and  placed  her  under  the 
direction  of  his  own  sister.  Here  she  was  treated  with  all 
the  respect  which  her  merit  deserved,  while  her  beauty 
everv  day  improved  with  her  good  fortune. 

She  had  not  been  long  in  this  situation,  when  Peter 
the  Great  paying  the  prince  a  visit,  Catharina  happened  to 
come  in  with  some  dried  fruits,  which  she  served  round  with 
peculiar  modesty.  The  mighty  monarch  saw  her,  and  was 
struck  with  her  beauty.  He  returned  the  next  day  ;  called 
for  the  beautiful  slave ;  asked  her  several  questions ;  and 
found  the  charms  of  her  mind  superior  even  to  those  of  her 
person. 

He  had  been  forced,  when  young,  to  marry  from  mo- 
tives of  interest :  he  was  now  resolved  to  marry  pursuant 
to  his  own  inclinations.     He  immediately  inquired  into  th? 


EXECUTION  OF  CRANME1  .  25 

history  of  the  fair  Livonian,  who  was  not  yet  eighteen.  He 
traced  her  through  the  vale  of  obscurity  ;  through  the  vicis- 
situdes of  her  fortune ;  and  found  her  truly  great  in  them 
all.  The  meanness  of  her  birth  was  no  obstruction  to  his 
design.  The  nuptials  were  solemnized  in  private  ;  the  prince 
declaring  to  his  courtiers  that  virtue  was  the  surest  ladder 
to  a  throne. 

We  now  see  Catharina.  raised  from  the  low,  mud 
walled  cottage,  to  be  Empress  of  the  greatest  kingdom  upon 
earth.  The  poor,  solitary  wanderer,  is  now  surrounded  by 
thousands  who  find  happiness  in  her  smile.  She,  who  for- 
merly wanted  a  meal,  is  now  capable  of  diffusing  plenty 
upon  whole  nations.  To  her  good  fortune  she  owed  a  part 
of  this  pre-eminence,  but  to  her  virtues  more.  She  ever  after 
retained  those  great  qualities  which  first  placed  her  on  a 
throne;  and,  while  the  extraordinary  prince,  her  husband, 
labored  for  the  reformation  of  his  male  subjects,  she  studied 
in  her  turn,  the  improvement  of  her  own  sex.  She  altered 
their  dresses ;  introduced  mixed  assemblies;  instituted  an 
order  of  female  knighthood  ;  promoted  piety  and  virtue  ;  and, 
at  length,  when  she  had  greatly  filled  all  the  stations  of 
empress,  friend,  wife,  and  mother,  bravely  died  without  re- 
gret— regretted  by  all.  Goldsmith. 


Execution  of  Cranmer,  Archbishop   of  Canterbury. 

Q,UEEN  MARY  determined  to  bring  Cranmer,  whom  she 
had  long  detained  in  prison,  to  punishment ;  and  in  order 
more  fully  to  satiate  her  vengeance,  she  resolved  to  punish 
him  for  heresy,  rather  man  for  treason.  He  was  cited  by 
the  Pope  to  stand  his  trial  at  Rome ;  and  though  he  was 
known  to  be  kept  in  close  custody  at  Oxford,  he  was,  upon 
his  not  appearing,  condemned  as  contumacious.  Bonner, 
bishop  of  London,  and  Thirleby,  bishop  of  Ely,  were  sent  to 
degrade  him ;  and  the  former  executed  the  melancholy 
ceremony,  with  all  the  joy  and  exultation  which  suited  nil 
savage  nature. 

The  implacable  spirit  of  the  Queen,  not  satisfied  with 
the  future  misery  of  Cranmer,  which  she  believed  inevitable, 
and  with  the  execution  of  that  dreadful  sentence  to  which  he 
was  condemned,  prompted  her  also  to  seek  the  ruin  of  his 


EXECUTION  OF  GRANMER. 


honor,  and  the  infamy  of  his  name.  Persons  were  employ- 
ed to  attack  him,  not  in  the  way  of  disputation,  against  which 
he  was  sufficiently  armed;  but  by  flattery,  insinuation,  and 
address  ;  by  representing  the  dignities  to  which  his  charac- 
ter still  entitled  him,  if  he  would  merit  them  by  a  recanta- 
tion; by  giving  him  hopes  of  long  enjoying  those  powerful 
friends,  whom  his  beneficent  disposition  had  attached  to  him 
during  the  course  of  his  prosperity. 

Overcome  by  the  fond  love  of  life  ;  terrified  by  the 
prospect  of  those  tortures  which  awaited  him  ;  he  allowed, 
in  an  unguarded  hour,  the  sentiment  of  nature  to  prevail  over 
l)is  resolution,  and  agreed  to  subscribe  to  the  doctrines  of  the 
papal  supremacy,  and  of  the  real  presence.  The  court, 
equally  perfidious  and  cruel,  was  determined  that  this  recan- 
tation should  avail  him  nothing ;  and  sent  orders  that  he 
should  be  required  to  acknoAvledge  his  errors  in  church,  be- 
fore the  whole  people ;  and  that  he  should  thence  be  imme- 
diately carried  to  execution. 

Cranmer,  whether  he  had  received  a  secret  intimation 
of  their  design,  or  had  repented  of  his  weakness,  surprised 
the  audience  by  a  contrary  declaration.  He  said  that  he 
was  well  apprised  of  the  obedience  which  he  owed  to  his 
sovereign  and  the  laws;  but  that  his  duty  extended  no  far- 
ther than  to  submit  patiently  to  their  commands,  and  to  bear, 
without  resistance,  whatever* hardships  they  should  impose 
qpon  him  ;  that  a  superior  duty,  the  duty  which  he  owed  to 
his  Maker,  obliged  him  to  speak  truth  on  all  occasions,  and 
»ot  to  relinquish,  by  a  ba-e  denial,  the  holy  doctrine  which 
the  (Supreme  Being  had  revealed  to  mankind  ;  that  there 
was  cme  miscarriage  in  his  life,  of  which  above  all  others  he 
severely  repented,  the  insincere  declaration  of  faith  to  which 
he  had  the  weakness  to  consent,  and  which  the  fear  of  death 
alone  had  extorted  from  him  ;  that  he  took  this  opportunity 
of  atonipg  for  his  error  by  a  sincere  and  open  recantation, 
and  was  willing  to  seal  with  his  blood  that  doctrine,  which 
he  firmly  believed  to  be  communicated  from  heaven  ;  and 
that,  as  his  hand  had  erred  by  betraying  his  heart,  it  should 
first  he  punished  by  a  severe  and  just  doom,  and  should  first 
pay  the  forfeit  of  its  offenses, 

He  was  then  led  to  the  stake,  amidst  the  insults  of  his 
enemies,  and  having  now  summoned  up  all  the  force  of  his 
mjnd,  he  bore  their  scorn,  as  well  as  the  torture  of  his  pun- 
Isjiment,  with  singular  fortitude.  He  stretched  out  his  hand, 
anid,  without  betraying,  either  by  his  countenance  or  motions, 
th.p  least  sign  of  weakness,  or  eyen  of  feeling,  he  held  it  in 


VOYAGE  OF  LIFE  27 

the  flames  till  it  was  entirely  consumed.  His  thoughts  seemed 
wholly  occupied  with  reflections  on  his  former  faults  ;  and 
he  called  aloud  several  times,  "this  hand  has  offended." 

Satisfied  with  that  atonement,  he  then  discovered  a  se- 
renity in  his  countenance ;  and  when  the  fire  attacked  his 
body,  he  seemed  to  be  quite  insensible  of  his  outward  suffer- 
ings, and  by  the  force  of  hope  and  resolution,  to  have  col- 
lected his  mind  altogether  within  itself,  and  to  repel  the  fury 
of  the  flames. — He  was  undoubtedly  a  man  of  merit,  pos- 
sessed of  learning  and  capacity,  and  adorned  with  candor, 
sincerity,  and  beneficence,  and  all  those  virtues  which  were 
fitted  to  render  him  useful  and  amiable  in  society. — Hume. 


The  Voyage  of  Life — an  Allegory. 

"LiFE,"  says  Seneca,  "is  a  voyage,  in  the  progress  of 
which  we  are  perpetually  changing  our  scenes.  We  first 
leave  childhood  behind  us,  then  youth,  then  the  years  of  ri- 
pened manhood,  then  the  better,  or  more  pleasing  part  of  old 
age."  The  perusal  of  this  passage  having  excited  in  me  a 
train  of  reflections  on  the  state  of  man, — the  incessant  fluc- 
tuation of  his  wishes,  the  gradual  change  of  his  disposition 
to  all  external  objects,  and  the  thoughtlessness  with  which 
'he  floats  along  the  stream  of  time, — 1  sunk  into  a  slumber 
amidst  my  meditations,  and,  on  a  sudden,  found  my  ears  filled 
with  the  tumult  of  labor,  the  shouts  of  alacrity,  the  shrieks 
of  alarm,  the  whistle  of  winds,  and  the  dash  of  waters. 

My  astonishment  for  a  time  suppressed  my  curiosity; 
but  soon  recovering  myself  so  far  as  to  inquire  whither  we 
were  going,  and  what  was  the  cause  of  such  clamor  and  con- 
fusion, I  was  told  that  we  were  launching  out  into  the  ocean 
of  life;  that  we  had  already  passed  the  straits  of  infancy,  in 
which  multitudes  had  perished, — some  by  the  weakness  and 
fragility  of  their  vessels,  and  more  by  the  folly,  perverseness, 
or  negligence  of  those  who  undertook  to  steer  them, — and 
that  we  were  now  on  the  main  sea,  abandoned  to  the  winds 
and  billows,  without  any  other  means  of  security  than  the 
care  of  the  pilot,  whom  it  was  always  in  our  power  to  choose, 
among  great  numbers  that  offered  their  direction  and  assist- 
ance. 

I  then  looked  around  with  anxious  eagerness ;  and,  first 


28  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 


turning  my  eyes  behind  me,  saw  a  stream  flowing  through 
flowery  islands,  which  every  one  that  sailed  along  seemed 
to  behold  with  pleasure ;  but  no  sooner  touched  them,  than 
the  current,  which  though  not  noisy  nor  turbulent  was  yet 
irresistible,  bore  him  away.  Beyond  these  islands  all  was 
darkness;  nor  could  any  of  the  passengers  describe  the  shore 
at  which  he  first  embarked. 

Before  me,  and  on  each  side,  was*  an  expanse  of  waters 
violently  agitated,  and  covered  with  so  thick  a  mist,  that  the 
most  perspicacious  eye  could  see  but  little  way.  It  appeared 
to  be  full  of  rocks  and  whirlpools;  for  many  sunk  unexpect- 
edly while  they  were  courting  the  gale  with  full  sails,  and 
insulting  those  whom  they  had  left  behind.  So  numerous, 
indeed,  were  the  dangers,  and  so  thick  the  darkness,  that  no 
caution  could  confer  security.  Yet  there  were  many,  who  by 
false  intelligence,  betrayed  their  followers  into  whirlpools,  or 
by  violence  pushed  those  whom  they  found  in  their  way 
against  the  rocks. 

The  current  was  invariable  and  insurmountable:  but 
though  it  was  impossible  to  sail  against  it,  or  to  return  to  the 
place  that  was  once  passed,  yet  it  was  not  so  violent  as  to 
allow  no  opportunities  for  dexterity  or  courage;  since,  though 
none  could  retreat  back  from  danger,  yet  they  might  often 
avoid  it  by  oblique  direction. 

It  was,  however,  not  very  common  to  steer  with  much 
care  or  prudence;  for,  by  some  universal  infatuation,  every 
man  appeared  to  think  himself  safe,  though  he  saw  his  con- 
sorts every  moment  sinking  around  him ;  and  no  sooner  had 
the  waves  closed  over  them,  than  their  fate  and  their  miscon- 
duct were  forgotten ;  the  voyage  was  pursued  with  the  same 
jocund  confidence;  every  man  congratulated  himself  upon 
the  soundness  of  his  vessel,  and  believed  himself  able  to  stem 
the  whirlpool  in  which  his  friend  was  swallowed,  or  glide 
over  the  rocks  on  which  he  was  dashed ;  nor  was  it  often  ob- 
served that  the  sight  of  a  wreck  made  any  man  change  his 
course.  If  he  turned  aside  for  a  moment,  he  soon  forgot  the 
rudder,  and  left  himself  again  to  the  disposal  of  chance. 

This  negligence  did  not  proceed  from  indifference,  or 
from  weariness  of  their  present  condition ;  for  not  one  of 
those  who  thus  rushed  upon  destruction,  failed,  when  he  was 
sinking,  to  call  loudly  upon  his  associates  for  mat  help  which 
could  not  now  be  given  him ;  and  many  spent  their  last  mo- 
ments in  cautioning  others  against  the  folly,  by  which  they 


VOYAGE  OF  LIFE.  20 

were  intercepted   in  the  midst  of  their  course.     Their  be- 
nevolence was  sometimes  praised,  but  their  admonitions 
were  unregarded. 

The  vessels  in  which  we  were  embarked,  being  confess- 
edly unequal  to  the  turbulence  of  the  stream  of  life,  were 
visibly  impaired  in  the  course  of  the  voyage ;  so  that  every 
passenger  was  certain,  that  how  long  soever  he  might,  by 
favorable  accidents,  or  by  incessant  vigilance,  be  preserved, 
he  must  sink  at  last. 

This  necessity  of  perishing  might  have  been  expected 
to  sadden  the  gay,  and  to  intimidate  the  daring;  at  least  to 
keep  the  melancholy  and  timorous  in  perpetual  torment,  and 
hinder  them  from  any  enjoyment  of  the  varieties  and  grati- 
fications which  nature  ottered  them  as  the  ^solace  of  their 
labors ;  yet,  in  effect,  none  seemed  less  to  expect  destruction 
than  those  to  whom  it  was  most  dreadful :  they  all  had  the 
art  of  concealing  their  danger  from  themselves;  and  those 
who  knew  their  inability  to  bear  the  sight  of  terrors  that  em- 
barrassed their  way,  took  care  never  to  look  forward  ;  but 
found  some  amusement  of  the  present  moment,  and  general- 
ly entertained  themselves  by  playing  wilh  Hope,  who  was 
the  constant  associate  of  the  Voyage  of  Life. 

Yet  all  that  Hope  ventured  to  promise,  even  to  those 
whom  she  favored  most,  was,  not  that  they  should  escape, 
but  that  they  should  sink  last ;  and  with  this  promise  every 
one  was  satisfied,  though  he  laughed  at  the  rest  for  seeming 
to  believe  it.  Hope,  indeed,  apparently  mocked  the  credu- 
lity of  her  companions  ;  for,  in  proportion  as  their  vessels 
grew  leaky,  she  redoubled  her  assurances  of  safety;  and 
none  were  more  busy  in  making  provisions  fora  long  voyage, 
than  they  whom  all  but  themselves  saw  likely  to  perish  soon 
by  irreparable  decay. 

In  the  midst  of  the  current  of  Life,  was  the  gulf  oi 
Intemperance,  a  dreadful  whirlpool,  interspersed  with  rocks, 
of  which  the  pointed  crags  were  concealed  underwater,  and 
the  tops  covered  with  herbage,  on  which  Ease  spread  couches 
of  repose,  and  with  shades,  where  Pleasure  warbled  the  song 
of  invitation.  Within  sight  of  these  rocks,  all  who  sailed 
on  the  ocean  of  Life  must  necessarily  pass. 

Reason,  indeed,  was  always  at  hand,  to  steer  the  pas- 
sengers through  a  narrow  outlet,  by  which  they  might  escape ; 
but  very  few  could,  by  her  entreaties  or  remonstrances,  be 
induced  to  put  the  rudder  into  her  hand,  without  stipulating 
that  she  should  approach  so  near  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  that 


30  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 


they  might  solace  themselves  with  a  short  enjoyment  of 
that  delicious  region :  after  which  they  always  determined 
to  pursue  their  course  without  any  deviation. 

Reason  was  too  often  prevailed  upon  so  far  by  these 
promises,  as  to  venture  her  charge  within  the  eddy  of  the 
gulf  of  Intemperance,  where  indeed  the  circumvolution 
was  weak,  but  yet  interrupted  the  course  of  the  vessel,  and 
drew  it  by  insensible  rotations  toward  the  center.  She  then 
repented  her  temerity,  and  with  all  her  force  endeavored  to 
retreat ;  but  the  draught  of  the  gulf  was  generally  too  strong 
to  be  overcome ;  and  the  passenger,  having  danced  in  circles 
with  a  pleasing  and  giddy  velocity,  was  at  last  overwhelmed 
and  lost. 

Those  few  whom  Reason  was  able  to  extricate,  gen- 
erally suffered  so  many  shocks  upon  the  points  which  shot 
out  from  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  that  they  were  unable  to  con- 
tinue their  course  with  the  same  strength  and  facility  as  be- 
fore, but  iloated  along,  timorously  and  feebly,  endangered  by 
every  'breeze,  and  shattered  by  every  ruffle  of  the  water,  till 
they  sunk,  by  slow  degrees,  after  long  struggles  and  innu- 
merable expedients,  always  repining  at  their  own  folly,  and 
warning  others  against  the  first  approach  toward  the  gulf  of. 
Intemperance. 

There  were  artists  who  professed  to  repair  the  breaches, 
and  stop  the  leaks,  of  the  vessels  which  had  been  shattered 
on  the  rocks  of  Pleasure.  Many  appeared  to  have  great 
skill;  and  some,  indeed,  were  preserved  by  it  from,  sinking, 
who  had  received  only  a  single  blow  ;  but  I  remarked  that 
few  vessels  lasted  long  which  had  been  much  repaired ;  nor 
was  it  found  that  the  artists  themselves  continued  afloat, 
longer  than  those  who  had  least  of  their  assistance. 

The  only  advantage  which,  in  the  voyage  of  Life,  the 
cautious  had  afjove  the  negligent,  was.  that  they  sunk  later, 
and  more  suddenly ;  for  they  passed  forward  till  they  had 
sometimes  seen  all  those  in  whose  company  they  had  issued 
from  the  straits  of  Infancy,  perish  in  the  way  ;  and  at  last 
were  overset  by  a  cross  breeze,  without  the  toil  of  resistance, 
or  the  anguish  of  expectation.  But  such  as  had  often  fallen 
against  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  commonly  subsided  by  sensible 
degrees ;  contended  long  with  the  encroaching  waters  ;  and 
harassed  themselves  by  labors  that  scarcely  Hope  herself 
could  flatter  with  success. 

As  I  was  looking  upon  the  various  fates  of  the  multi- 
tude about  me,  I  was  suddenly  alarmed  with  an  adrnonitioo. 


DEATH  OF  SOCRATES.  31 

from  some  unknown  power :  "  Gaze  not  idly  upon  others, 
when  thou  thyself  art  sinking.  Whence  is  this  thoughtless 
tranquillity,  when  thou  and  they  are  equally  endangered  f* 
I  looked,  and  seeing  the  gulf  of  Intemperance  before  me^ 
started  and  awaked.  Dr.  Johnson. 


Death  of  Socrates. 

SOCRATES,  the  famous  Greek  philosopher,  was  born  at 
Athens,  about  451  years  before  Christ.  He  gave  early  proofs 
of  his  valor  in  the  service  of  his  country,  but  chiefly  applied 
himself  to  the  study  of  philosophy ;  and  was  a  person  of 
irresistible  eloquence,  and  accomplished  virtue.  His  distin- 
guishing characteristic  was  a  perfect  tranquillity  of  mind, 
which  enabled  him  to  support,  with  patience,  the  most 
troublesome  accidents  of  life. 

He  used  to  beg  of  those  with  whdm  he  Usually  conver- 
sed, to  put  him  on  his  guardj  the  moment  they  perceived  in 
him  the  first  emotions  of  anger;  and  when  they  did  so,  he 
instantly  resumed  perfect  composure  and  complacency. 
His  wife,  Xantippe,  a  woman  of  the  most  whimsical  and 
provoking  temper,  afforded  him  sufficient  opportunity  of  ex- 
ercising his  patience,  by  the  revilings  and  abuse  with  which 
she  was  constantly  loading  him. 

Socrates  possessed,  in  a  superior  degree,  the  talent  of 
reasoning.  His  principal  employment  was  the  instruction 
of  youth — an  object  to  which  he  directed  ail  his  care  and 
attention.  He  kept,  however,  no  fixed  public  school,  but 
took  every  opportunity,  without  regarding  times  or  places, 
of  conveying  to  them  his  precepts,  and  that  in  the  most  en- 
ticing and  agreeable  manner.  His  lessons  were  so  univer- 
sally relished,  that  the  moment  he  appeared,  whether  in  the 
public  assemblies,  walks,  or  feasts,  he  was  surrounded  with 
a  throng  of  the  most  illustrious  scholare  and  hearers.  The 
young  Athenians  quitted  eve*h  their  pleasures,  to  listen  to  the 
discourse  of  Socrates. 

He  greatly  exerted  himself  against  the  power  of  the 
thirty  tyrants,  and  in  the  behalf  of  Theramenes,  whom 
they  had  condemned  to  death  ;  insomuch,  that  they  became 
so  much  alarmed  at  his  behavior,  that  they  forbade  him  to 
instruct  the  Athenian  youth.  Soon  after,  an  accusation  was 
formally  exhibited  against  him  by  Melitus,  containing  in 


32  DEATH  OF  SOCRATES. 

substance,  "That  he  did  not  acknowledge  the  gods  of  the 
republic,  but  introduced  new  deities  in  their  room;"  and  fur- 
ther, "that  he  corrupted  the  youth."  He  urged,  in  his  de- 
fense, that  he  had  assisted,  as  others  had,  at  the  sacrifices 
and  solemn  festivals. 

He  denied  his  endeavoring  to  establish  any  new  wor- 
ship. He  owned,  indeed,  that  he  had  received  frequent  ad- 
monitions from  a  divine  voice,  which  he  called  his  genius, 
that  constantly  attended  him,  and  discovered  to  him  future 
events, — that  ne  had  often  made  use  of  this  divine  assistance 
for  the  service  of  himself  and  his  friends, — but,  that  if  he 
had  been  thus  particularly  favored  by  Heaven,  it  was  owing 
chiefly  to  the  regularity  of  his  life  and  conduct;  and  that  the 
approbation  of  the  Supreme  Being,  which  was  given  him  as 
a  reward  for  his  virtue,  ought  not  to  be  objected  to  him  as 
his  crime. 

Then,  as  to  the  other  article,  wherein  he  was  accused 
of  corrupting  the  youth,  and  teaching  them  to  despise  the 
settled  laws  and  order  of  the  commonwealth,  he  said  he  had 
no  other  view  in  his  conversation  with  them  than  to  regu- 
late their  morals, — that  as  he  could  not  do  this  with  any 
public  authority,  he  was  therefore  forced  to  insinuate  him- 
self into  their  company,  and  to  use,  in  a  manner,  the  same 
methods  to  reclaim,  which  others  did  to  corrupt  them. 

How  far  the  whole  charge  affected  him,  it  is  not  easy  to 
determine.  It  is  certain,  that  amidst  so  much  zeal  and  super- 
stition as  then  reigned  in  Athens,  he  never  dare  openly  op- 
pose the  received  religion,  and  was  therefore  obliged  to  pre- 
serve an  outward  show  of  it.  But  it  is  very  probable,  from 
the  discourses  he  frequently  held  with  his  friends,  that,  in 
his  heart,  he  despised  and  laughed  at  their  monstrous  opin- 
ions and  ridiculous  mysteries,  as  having  no  other  founda- 
tion than  the  fables  of  the  poets ;  and  that  he  had  attained 
to  a  notion  of  the  one  only  true  God,  insomuch,  that  upon 
the  account  of  his  belief  of  the  Deity,  and  his  exemplary 
life,  some  have  thought  fit  to  rank  him  with  Christian  phi- 
losophers. 

And  indeed  his  behavior  upon  his  trial  was  more  like 
that  of  a  Christian  martyr  than  an  impious  pagan,  — where 
he  appeared  with  such  a  composed  confidence,  as  naturally 
results  from  innocence ;  and  rather,  as  Ciceros  observes,  as- 
if  he  were  to  determine  upon  his  judges,  than  to  supplicate 
them  as  a  criminal. — But  how  slight  soever  the  proofs  were 


DEATH  OF  SOCRATES. 


against  him,  the  faction  was  powerful  enough  to  find  him 
guilty. 

It  was  a  privilege,  however,  granted  him,  to  demand  a 
mitigationb  of  punishment,-— to  change  the  condemnation  of 
death  into  banishment,  imprisonment  or  a  fine.  But  he 
replied,  generously,  that  he  would  choose  neither  of  those 
punishments,  because  that  would  be  to  acknowledge  himself 
guilty.  This  answer  so  incensed  his  judges,  that  they  de- 
termined he  should  drink  the  hemlock,  a  punishment  at  that 
time  much  in  use  among  them. 

Thirty  days  were  allowed  him  to  prepare  to  die  ;  du- 
ring which  time  he  conversed  with  his  friends  with  the  same 
evenness  and  serenity  of  mind  he  had  ever  done  before.  And 
though  they  had  bribed  the  jailer  for  his  escape,  he  refused 
it,  as  an  ungenerous  violation  of  the  laws.  He  was  about 
seventy  years  old  when  he  suffered ;  which  made  him  say, 
he  thought  himself  happy  to  quit  life,  at  a  time  when  it  be- 
gan to  be  troublesome ;  and  that  his  death  was  rather  a  de- 
liverance than  a  punishment. 

Cicero  has  described,  with  great  eloquence,  the  lofty 
sentiments  aryl  magnanimous  behavior  of  Socrates. — While 
he  held  the  fatal  cup  in  his  hand,  he  declared  that  he  con- 
sidered death,  not  as  a  punishment  inflicted  on  him,  but  as 
a  help  furnished  him,  of  arriving  so  much  sooner  at  heaven. 

His  children  being  brought  before  him,  he  spoke  to 
them  a  little,  and  then  desired  them  to  be  taken  away.  The 
hour  appointed  for  drinking  the  hemlock  being  come,  they 
brought  him  the  cup,  which  he  received  without  any  emo- 
tion, and  then  addressed  a  prayer  to  heaven.  It  is  highly 
reasonable,  said  he,  to  offer  my  prayers  to  the  Supreme  Being 
on  this  occasion,  and  to  beseech  him  to  render  my  departure 
from  earth,  and  my  last  journey,  happy.  Then  he  drank  off 
the  poison  with  amazing  tranquillity. 

ObseTving  his  friends  in  this  fatal  moment  weeping 
and  dissolved  in  tears,  he  reproved  them  with  great  mildness, 
asking  them  whether  their  virtue  had  deserted  them;  "for," 
added  he,  "  I  have  always  heard  that  it  is  our  duty  calmly  to 
resign  our  breath,  giving  thanks  to  God."  After  walking 
about  a  little  while,  perceiving  the  poison  beginning  to  work, 
he  lay  down  on  his  couch,  and,  in  a  few  moments  after, 
breathed  his  last.  Cicero  declares,  that  he  could  never  read 
the  account  of  the  death  of  Socrates  without  shedding  tears. 

Soon  after  his  death,  the  Athenians  were  convinced  ol 
his  innocence,  and  considered  all  the  misfortunes  which  after- 


34  PENN'S  TREATY 

ward  befell  the  republic,  as  a  punishment  for  the  injustice  of 
his  sentence.  When  the  academy,  and  the  other  places  oi 
the  city  where  he  taught,  presented  themselves  to  the  view 
of  his  countrymen,  they  could  not  refrain  from  reflecting  on 
the  reward  bestowed  by  them,  on  one  who  had  done  them 
such  important  services.  They  canceled  the  decree  which 
had  condemned  him, — put  Melitus  to  death. — banished  his 
other  accusers, — and  erected  to  his  memory  a  statue  of 
brass,  which  was  executed  by  the  famous  Lysippus. 


Interesting  account  of  William  Perm's  treaty  with  the  7n- 
dians,  previous  to  his  settling  in  Pennsylvania. 

THE  country  assigned  to  him  by  the  royal  charter,  was 
yet  full  of  its  original  inhabitants  ;  and  the  principles  of  Wil- 
liam Penn  did  not  allow  him  to  look  upon  that  gift,  as  a  war- 
rant to  dispossess  the  first  proprietors  of  the  land.  He  had 
accordingly  appointed  his  commissioners,  the  preceding  year, 
to  treat  with  them  for  the  fair  purchase  of  a  part  of  their 
lands,  and  for  their  joint  possession  of  the  remainder;  and 
the  terms  of  the  settlement  being  now  nearly  agreed  upon, 
he  proceeded,  very  soon  after  his  arrival,  to  conclude  the  set- 
tlement, and  solemnly  to  pledge  his  faith,  and  to  ratify  and 
confirm  the  treaty,  in  sight  both  of  the  Indians  and  planters. 

For  this  purpose  a  grand  convocation  of  the  tribes  had 
been  appointed,  near  the  spot  where  Philadelphia  now  stands  j 
and  it  was  agreed,  that  he  and  the  presiding  Sachems  should 
meet  and  exchange  faith,  under  the  spreading  branches  of  a 
prodigious  elm-tree  that  grew  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  On 
the  day  appointed,  accordingly,  an  innumerable  multitude  oi 
the  Indians  assembled  in  that  neighborhood,  and  were  seen, 
with  their  dark  visages  '  and  brandished  arms,  "moving,  in 
vast  swarms,  in  the  depths  of  the  woods  which  then  over- 
shaded  the  whole  of  that  now  cultivated  region. 

On  the  other  hand,  William  Penn,  with  a  moderate  at- 
tendance of  friends,  advanced  to  meet  them.  He  came  of 
course  unarmed, — in  his  usual  plain  dress, — without  banners, 
or  mace,  or  guard,  or  carriages ;  and  only  distinguished  from 
his  companions  by  wearing  a  blue  sash  of  silk  net  work, 
(which  it  seems  is  still  preserved  by  Mr.  Kelt,  of  Seething- 
hall,  near  Norwich,)  and  by  having  in  his  hand  a  roll  of 


WITH  THE  INDIANS. 


parchment,    on  which  was  engrossed     the  confirmation  of 
the  treaty  of  purchase  and  arnity. 

As  soon  as  he  drew  near  the  spot  where  the  Sachems 
were  assembled,  the  whole  multitude  of  Indians  threw  dowtt 
their  weapons,  and  seated  themselves  on  the  ground  in 
groups,  each  under  his  own  chieftain ;  and  the  presiding 
chief  intimated  to  William  Penn,  that  the  nations  were  ready 
to  hear  him.  Having  been  thus  calico1  upon,  he  began: 
"  The  great  Spirit,"  he  said,  "  who  made  him  and  them,  who 
ruled  the  heaven  and  the  earth,  and  who  knew  the  innermost 
thoughts  of  man,  knew  that  he  and  his  friends  had  a  hearty 
desire  to  live  in  peace  and  friendship  with  them,  and  to* 
serve  them  to  the  utmost  of  their  power. 
*  "  It  was  not  their  custom  to  use  hostile  weapons  against 
their  fellow  creatures ;  for  which  reason  they  had  come  un- 
armed. Their  objetct  was  not  to  do  injury,  and  thus  provoke 
the  Great  Spirit,  but  to  do  good.  They  were  then  met  OH 
the  broad  pathway  of  good  faith  and  good  will;  so  that  no 
advantage  was  to  be, taken  on  either  side,  but  all  was  to  be 
openness,  brotherhood  and  love." 

After  these  and  other  words,  he  unrolled  the1  parchment, 
and,  by  means  of  the  same  interpreted,  conveyed  to  them, 
article  by  article^  the  conditions  of  the  purchase,  and  the 
words  of  the  compact  then  made  for  their  eternal  union/ 
Among  other  things,  they  were  not  to  be  molested  in  thei* 
lawful  pursuits,  eVen  in  the  territory  they  had  alienated  $ 
for  it  was  to  be  common  to  them  and  the  English. 

They  were  to  have  the  same  liberty  to  do  all  things- 
therein,  relating  to  the  improvement  of  their  grounds,  £fc(! 
the  providing  of  sustenance  for  their  families,  which  i>he 
English  had.  If  any  disputes  should  arise  between  the  Hwo\ 
they  should  be  settled  by  twelve  persons,  half  of  whom  shotild 
be  English  and  half  Indians.  He  then  paid  them  fof  the 
land,  and  made  them  many  presents  besides,  from  the  mer- 
chandise that  had  been  spread  before  them.  Having  (Zone 
thisj  he  laid  the  roll  of  parchment  on  the  ground,  observing 
again,  that  the  ground  should  be  common  to  both  people/ 

He  then  added,  he  would  not  do>  as  the*  Marylanders 
did,  that  is,  call  them  Children  or  Brothers  only :  for  often 
parents  were  apt  to  whip  their  children  too  severely,  and 
brothers  sometimes  would  differ;  neifhef  Would  he  compare 
the  friendship  between  him  and  them  to-  a  chain,  for  the  rain 
might  sometimes  rust  it,  or  a  tree  might  fall  and  breafe  it ; 
but  he  should  consider  them  as  the  same  flesh  and 


36  RELIGION  AND 


with  the  Christians,  and  the  same  as  it  one  man's  body  were 
to  be  divided  into  two  parts.  He  then  took  up  the  parch- 
ment, and  presented  it  to  the  Sachem  who  wore  the  horn  in 
the  chaplet,  and  desired  him  and  the  other  Sachems  to  pre- 
serve it  carefully  for  three  generations,  that  their  children 
might  know  what  had  passed  between  them,  just  as  if  he 
himself  had  remained  with  them  to  repeat  it. 

The  Indians,  in  return,  made  long  and  stately  ha- 
rangues :  of  which,  however,  no  more  seems  to  have  been 
remembered  but  that  "they  pledged  themselves  to  live  in 
love  with  William  Penn  and  his  children,  as  long  as  the  sun 
and  moon  should  endure."  And  thus  ended  this  famous 
treaty : — of  which  Voltaire  has  remarked,  with  so  much  truth 
and  severity,  that  "  it  was  the  only  one  ever  concluded  be- 
tween savages  and  Christians  that  was  not  ratified  by  an 
oath,— and  the  only  one  that  never  was  broken." 

Such,  indeed,  was  the  spirit  in  which  the  negotiation*1 
was  entered  into,  and  the  corresponding  settlement  conduct- 
ed, that,  for  the  space  of  more  than  seventy  years,  and  so 
long  indeed  as  the  Quakers  retained  the  chief  power  in  the 
government,  the  peace  and  amity  which  had  been  thus  so- 
lemnly promised  and  concluded,  never  was  violated  ;  and  a 
great  and  most  striking,  though  solitary  example  afforded, 
of  the  facility  with  which  they  who  are  really  sincere  and 
friendly  in  their  own  views,  may  live  in  harmony,  even  with 
those  who  are  supposed  to  be  peculiarly  fierce  and  faithless. 

Edinburgh  Review. 


Religion  and  Superstition  contrasted. 

I  HAD  lately  a  very  remarkable  dream,  which  made  so 
strong  an  impression  upon  me,  that  I  remember  every  word 
of  it ;  and  if  you  are  not  better  employed,  you  may  read  the 
relation  of  it  as  follows  ; — I  thought  I  was  in  the  midst  of  a 
very  entertaining  set  of  company,  and  extremely  delighted 
in  attending  to  a  lively  conversation,  Avhen,  on  a  sudden,  I 
perceived  one  of  the  most  shocking  figures  that  imagination 
can  frame,  advancing  toward  me. 

She  was  dressed  in  black,  her  skin  was  contracted  into 
a  thousand  wrinkles,  her  eyes  deep  sunk  in  her  head,  and 
her  complexion  pale  and  lividf  as  the  countenance  of  death. 
Her  looks  were  filled  with  terror  and  unrelenting  severity, 


SUPERSTITION  CONTRASTED.  37 

and  her  hands  armed  with  whips  and  scorpions.  As  soon 
as  she  came  near,  with  a  horrid  frown,  and  a  voice  that  chill- 
ed my  very  blood,  she  bade  me  follow  her.  I  obeyed;  and 
she  led  me  through  rugged  paths,  beset  with  briers  and 
thorns,  into  a  deep,  solitary  valley. 

Wherever  she  passed,  the  fading  verdure  withered  be- 
neath her  steps  ;  her  pestilential  breath  infected  the  air  with 
malignant  vapors — obscured  the  luster  of  the  sun,  and  in- 
volved the  fair  face  of  heaven  in  universal  gloom.  Dismal 
bowlings  resounded  through  the  forest :  from  every  baleful 
tree  the  night-raven  uttered  his  dreadful  note  ;  and  the  pros- 
pect was  filled  with  desolation  and  horror.  In  the  midst  of 
this  tremendous  scene,  my  execrable  guide  addressed  me 
in  the  following  manner : 

"  Retire  with  me,  O  rash,  unthinking  mortal !  from  the 
vain  allurements  of  a  deceitful  world  ;  and  learn  that  plea- 
sure was  not  designed  as  the  portion  of  human  life.  Man 
was  born  to  mourn  and  to  be  wretched.  This  is  the  condi- 
tion of  all  below  the  stars ;  and  whoever  endeavors  to  oppose 
it,  acts  in  contradiction  to  the  will  of  heaven.  Fly,  then, 
from  the  enchantments  of  youth  and  social  delight,  and  here 
consecrate  thy  solitary  hours  to  lamentation  and  wo.  Misery 
is  the  duty  of  all  sublunary  beings ;  and  every  enjoyment 
is  an  offense  to  the  Deity,  who  is  to  be  worshiped  only  by 
the  mortification  of  every  sense  of  pleasure,  and  the  ever- 
lasting exercise  of  sighs  and  tears," 

This  melancholy  picture  of  life  quite  sunk  my  spirits, 
and  seemed  to  annihilate  every  principle  of  joy  within  me. 
I  threw  myself  beneath  a  blasted  yew,  where  the  winds  blew 
cold  and  dismal  around  my  head,  and  dreadful  apprehensions 
chilled  my  heart.  Here  I  resolved  to  lie  till  the  hand  of 
death,  which  I  impatiently  invoked,  should  put  an  end  to 
the  miseries  of  a  life  so  deplorably  wretched.  In  this  sad 
situation,  I  espied  on  one  hand  of  me  a  deep  muddy  river, 
whose  heavy  waves  rolled  on,  in  slow,  sullen  murmuas. 

Here  I  determined  to  plunge  ;  and  was  just  upon  the 
brink,  when  I  found  myself  suddenly  drawn  back.  I  turned 
about,  and  was  surprised  by  the  sight  of  the  loveliest  object 
I  had  ever  beheld.  The  most  engaging  charms  of  youth 
and  beauty,  appeared  in  all  her  form ;  effulgent  glories  spar- 
kled in  her  eyes,  and  their  awful  splendors  were  softened, 
by  the  gentlest  looks  of  compassion  and  peace. 

At  her  approach,  the  frightful  sp0"*'1'1.   who  had  before 


RELIGION  AND 


tormented  me.  Vanished  away,  and  with  her  all  the  horrors 
she  had  caused,  The  gloomy  clouds  brightened  into  cheer- 
ful sunshine,  the  groves  recovered  their  verdure,  and  the 
whole  region  looked  gay  and  blooming  as  the  garden  of 
Eden,  I  was  quite  transported  at  this  unexpected  change, 
and  reviving  pleasure  began  to  gladden  my  thoughts,  when, 
with  a  look  of  inexpressible  sweetness,  my  beauteous  deliv- 
erer thus  uttered  her  divine  instructions: 

"  My  name  is  Religion,  I  am  the  offspring  of  Truth 
and  Love,  and  the  parent  of  Benevolence,  Hope,. and  Joy. — 
That  monster,  from  whose  power  I  have  freed  yofy  is  called 
Superstition;  slie  is  the  child  of  Discontent,  and  her  follow- 
ers are  Fear  and  Sorrow.  Thus,  different  as  we  are,  she 
has  often  the  insolence  to  assume  my  name  and  character  j 
and  seduces  unhappy  mortals  to  think  us  the  same,  till  she 
at  length  drives  them  to  the  borders  of  Despair — that  dread- 
ful abyss  into  Which  you  were  just  going  to  sink. 

'Look  around  and  survey  the  various  beauties  of  the 
globe,  which  heaven  has  destined  for  the  seat  of  the  human 
race,  and  consider  whether  a  world  thus  exquisitely  framed, 
could  be  intended  for  the  abode  of  misery  and  pain.  For 
what  end  has  the  lavish  hand  of  Providence  diffused  innu- 
merable objects  of  delight,  but  that  all  might  rejoice  in  the 
privilege  of  existence,  and  be  filled  with  gratitude  to  the  be- 
neficent Author  of  it. 

"  Thus  to  enjoy  the  blessings  he  has  sent,  is  virtue  and 
obedience;  and  to  reject  them  merely  as  means  of  pleasure, 
is  pitiable  ignorance,  or  absurd  perverseness.  Infinite  <?.ood- 
ness  is  the  source  of  created  existence.  The  proper  tenden- 
cy of  every  rational  being,  from  the  highest  order  of  raptured 
seraphs  to  the  meanest  rank  of  men,  is,  to  rise  incessantly 
from  lower  degrees  of  happiness  to  higher.  They  have  fa- 
culties assigned  them  for  various  orders  of  delights." 

"  What !"  cried  I,  "is  this  the  language  of  Religion  1 
Does  she  lead  her  votaries  through  flowery  paths,  arid  bid 
them  pass  an  unlaborious  life  ?  Where  are  the  painful  toils 
of  virtue,  the  mortifications  of  penitents,  and  the  self-denying 
exercises  of  saints  and  heroes  ?" 

"  The  true  enjoyments  of  a  reasonable  being,"  an- 
swered she,  mildly,  "  do  not  consist  in  unbounded  indulgence, 
or  luxurious  ease',— in  the  tumult  of  passions,  the  languor  of 
indulgence,  or  the  nutter  of  light  amusements.  Yielding  to 
immoral  pleasures  corrupts  the  mind  j  living  to  animal  and 


SUPERSTITION  CONTRASTED.  39 

trifling  ones  debases  it «  both  in  their  degree,  disqualify  it  for 
its  genuine  good,  and  consign  it  over  to  wretchedness 
Whoever  would  be  really  happy,  must  make  the  diligent  and 
regular  exercise  of  his  superior  powers  his  chief  attention,— 
adoring  the  perfections  of  his  Maker,  expressing  good  will 
to  his  fellow-creatures,  and  cultivating  inward  rectitude. 

"  To  his  corporeal  faculties  he  must  allow  such  grati 
flcations,  as  will,  by  refreshing,  invigorate  him  for  nobler 
pursuits.  In  the  regions  inhabited  by  angelic  natures,  un- 
mingled  felicity  forever  blooms  ;  joy  flows  there  with  a  per- 
petual and  abundant  stream,  nor  needs  any  mound  to  check 
its  course.  Beings,  conscious  of  a  frame  of  mind  originally 
diseased,  as  all  the  human  race  have  cause  to  be,  must  use 
the  regimen  of  a  stricter  self-government. 

"  Whoever  has  been  guilty  of  voluntary  excesses,  must 
patiently  submit,  both  to  the  painful  workings  of  nature,  and 
needful  severities  of  medicine,  in  order  to  his  cure.  Still  he 
is  entitled  to  a  moderate  share,  of  whatever  alleviating  ac- 
commodations this  fair  mansion  of  his  merciful  Parent  af- 
fords, consistent  with  his  recovery.  And,  in  proportion  as 
this  recovery  advances,  the  liveliest  joy  will  spring  from  his 
secret  sense  of  an  amended  and  improved  heart, — So  far 
from  the  horrors  of  despair  is  the  condition  even  of  the 
guilty. — Shudder,  poor  mortal,  at  the  thought  of  the  gulf  into 
which  thou  wast  just  now  going  to  plunge. 

"  While  the  most  faulty  have  every  encouragement  to 
amend,  the  more  innocent  soul  will  be  supported  with  still 
sweeter  consolations  under  all  its  experience  of  human  infir* 
mities-~supported  by  the  gladdening  assurances,  that  every 
sincere  endeavor  to  outgrow  them,  shall  be  assisted,  accept- 
ed, and  rewarded.  To  such  a  one,  the  lowest  self-abasement 
is  but  a  deep-laid  foundation  for  the  most  elevated  hopes  5 
since  they  who  faithfully  examine  and  acknowledge  what 
they  are,  shall  be  enabled,  under  my  conduct}  to  become 
what  they  desire. 

"  The  Christian,  and  the  hero  are  inseparable ;  and  to 
the  aspirings  of  unassuming  trust  and  filial  confidence,  are 
set  no  bounds.  To  him  who  is  animated  with  a  view  of  ob- 
taining approbation  from  the  Sovereign  of  the  universe,  no 
difficulty  is  insurmountable.  Secure,  in  this  pursuit,  of  eve- 
ry needful  aid,  his  conflict  with  the  severest  pains  and  trials, 
is  little  more  than  the  vigorous  exercises  of  a  mind  in  health. 

"  His  patient  dependence  on  that  providence  which 
looks  through  all  eternity, — his  silent  resignation,— his  ready 


40  THE  PLEASURE  OP 

accommodation  of  his  thoughts  and  behavior  to  its  inscrutk- 
ble  ways, — are  at  once  the  most  excellent  sort  of  self-denial^ 
and  a  source  of  the  most  exalted  transports.  Society  is  the 
true  sphere  of  human  virtue.  In  social,  active  life,  difficul- 
ties will  perpetually  be  met  with ;  restraints  of  many  kinds 
will  be  necessary  ;  and  studying  to  behave  right  in  respect 
of  these,  is  a  discipline  of  the  human  heart,  useful  to  others, 
and  improving  to  itself. 

"  Suffering  is  no  duty,  but  where  it  is  necessary  to 
avoid  guilt,  or  to  do  good  ;  nor  pleasure  a  crime,  but  where  it 
strengthens  the  influence  of  bad  inclinations,  or  lessens  the 
generous  activity  of  virtue.  The  happiness  allotted  to  man 
in  his  present  state,  is  indeed  faint  and  low,  compared  with 
his  immortal  prospects,  and  noble  capacities:  but  yet,  what 
ever  portion  of  it  the  distributing  hand  of  heaven  offers  to 
each  individual,  is  a  needful  support  and  refreshment  for  the 
present  moment,  so  far  as  it  may  not  hinder  the  attaining  of 
his  final  destination. 

"  Return,  then,  with  me,  from  corrtinued  misery  to 
moderate  enjoyment  and  grateful  alacrity  :  — return,  from 
the  contracted  views  of  solitude,  to  the  proper  duties  of  a  rela- 
tive and  dependent  being.  Religion  is  not  confined  to  cells 
and  closets,  nor  restrained  to  sullen  retirement.  These  are 
the  gloomy  doctrines  of  Superstition,  by  which  she  endea- 
vors to  break  those  chains  of  benevolence  .and  social  affeo 
tion,  that  link  the  welfare  of  every  particular  with  that  of  the 
whole.  Remember  that  the  greatest  honor  you  can  pay  the 
Author  of  your  being  is  a  behavior  so  cheerful,  as  discovers 
a  mind  satisfied  with  his  dispensations." 

Here  my  preceptress  paused ;  and  I  was  going  to  ex- 
press my  acknowledgments  for  her  discourse,  when  a  ring- 
ing of  bells  from  the  neighboring  village,  and  the  new  rising 
sun,  darting  his  beams  through  my  windows,  awoke  me. 

Mrs.  Carter. 


DIDACTIC   PIECES 


On  the  pleasure  of  acquiring  knowledge. 

IN  every  period  of  life,  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  is 
one  of  the  most  pleasing  employments  of  the  human  mind. 


ACQUIRING  KNOWLEDGE.  41 

But  in  youth,  there  are  circumstances  which  make  it  produc- 
tive of  higher  enjoyment.  It  is  then  that  every  thing  has  the 
charm  of  novelty  j  that  curiosity  and  fancy  are  awake ;  and 
that  the  heart  swells  with  the  anticipations11  of  future  emi- 
nence and  utility.  Even  in  those  lower  branches  of  instruc- 
tion which  we  call  mere  accomplishments,  there  is  some- 
thing always  pleasing  to  the  young  in  their  acquisition. 

They  seem  to  become  every  well  educated  person ;  they 
adorn,  if  they  do  not  dignify  humanity  ;  and  what  is  far  more, 
while  they  give  an  elegant  employment  to  hours  of  leisure 
and  relaxation,  they  afford  a  means  of  contributing  to  the 
purity  and  innocence  of  domestic  life.  But  in  the  acquisi- 
tion of  knowledge  of  the  higher  kind, — in  the  hours  when, 
the  young  gradually  begin  the  study  of  the  laws  of  nature, 
and  of  the  faculties  of  the  human  mind,  or  of  the  magnifi- 
cent revelations  of  the  Gospel, — there  is  a  pleasure  of  a  sub- 
limer  nature. 

The  cloud,  which  in  their  infant  years  seemed  to  cover 
nature  from  their  view,  begins  gradually  to  resolve.  The 
world  in  which  they  are  placed,  opens  with  all  its  wonders 
upon  their  eye;  their  powers  of  attention  and  observation 
seem  to  expand  with  the  scene  before  them  ;  and  while  they 
see,  for  the  first  time,  the  immensity  of  the  universe  of  God, 
and  mark  the  majestic  simplicity  of  those  laws  by  which  its 
operations  are  conducted,  they  feel  as  if  they  were  awakened 
to  a  higher  species  of  being,  and  admitted  into  nearer  inter- 
course with  the  Author  of  Nature. 

It  is  this  period,  accordingly,  more  than  all  others,  that 
determines  our  hopes  or  fears  of  the  future  fate  of  the  young. 
To  feel  no  joy  in  such  pursuits,— to  listen  carelessly  to  the 
voice  which  brings  such  magnificent  instruction, — to  see  the 
veil  raised  which  conceals  the  counsels  of  the  Deity,  and  to 
show  no  emotion  at  the  discovery, — are  symptoms  of  a  weak 
and  torpid  spirit — of  a  mind  unworthy  of  the  advantages 
it  possesses,  and  fitted  only  for  the  humility  of  sensual  and 
ignoble  pleasure. 

Of  those,  on  the  contrary,  who  distinguish  themselves 
by  the  love  of  knowledge,— who  follow  with  ardor  the  career 
that  is  open  to  them, — we  are  apt  to  form  the  most  honorable 
presages.  It  is  the  character  which  is  natural  to  youth,  and 
which,  therefore,  promises  well  of  their  maturity.  We  fore- 
see for  them,  at  least  a  life  of  pure  and  virtuous  enjoyment-: 
and  we  are  willing  to  anticipate  no  common  share  of  future 
usefulness  and  splendor. 


42  USES  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 


In  the  second  place,  the  pursuits  of  knowledge  lead  noA 
only  to  happiness,  but  to  honor.  "  Length  of  days  is  in  her 
right  hand,  and  in  her  left  are  riches  and  honor."  It  is  hon- 
orable to  excel,  even  in  the  most  trifling  species  of  knowl- 
edge— in  those  which  can  amuse  only  the  passing  hour.  It 
is  more  honorable  to  excel  in  those  different  branches  of  sci- 
ence, which  are  connected  with  the  liberal  professions  of  life 
and  which  tend  so  much  to  the  dignity  and  well-being  of 
humanity. 

It  is  the  means  of  raising  the  most  obscure  to  esteem 
and  attention  ;  it  opens  to  the  just  ambition  of  youth  some  of 
the  most  distinguished  and  respected  situations  in  society  ; 
and  it  places  them  there,  with  the  consoling  reflection,  that  it 
is  to  their  own  industry  and  labor,  in  the  providence  of  God, 
that  they  are  alone  indebted  for  them.  But,  to  excel  in  the 
higher  attainments  of  knowledge,— to  he  distinguished  in 
those  greater  pursuits  which  have  commanded  the  attention, 
and  exhausted  the  abilities  of  the  wise  in  every  former  age, — 
is,  perhaps,  of  all  the  distinctions  of  human  understanding, 
the  most  honorable  and  grateful. 

When  we  look  back  upon  the  great  men  who  have  gone 
betore  us  in  every  path  of  glory,  we  feel  our  eye  turned  from 
the  career  of  war  and  of  ambition,  and  involuntarily  rest 
upon  those  who  have  displayed  the  great  truths  of  religion,— 
who  have  investigated  the  laws  of  social  Avelfare,  or  extend- 
ed the  sphere  of  human  knowledge.  These  are  honors,  we 
feel,  which  have  been  gained  without  a  crime,  and  which 
can  be  enjoyed  without  remorse.  They  are  honors  also 
which  can  never  die, — which  can  shed  lustre  even  upon  the 
humblest  head, — and  to  which  the  young  of  every  succeed- 
ing age  will  look  up,  as  their  brightest  incentive  to  the  pur- 
suit of  virtuous  fame. 


On  the  uses  of  knowledge. 

THE  first  end  to  which  all  wisdom  or  knowledge  ought 
to  be  employed,  is.  to  illustrate  the  wisdom  or  goodness  of 
the  Father  of  Nature.  Every  science  that  is  cultivated  by 
men  leads  naturally  to  religious  thought — from  the  study 
of  the  plant  that  grows  beneath  our  feet,  to  that  of  the  Host 
of  Heaven  above  us,  who  perform  their  stated  revolutions  in 
majestic  silence,  amid  the  expanse  of  infinity.  When  in  the 
youth  of  Moses,  "  The  Lord  appeared  to  him  in  Horeb,"  a 
voice  was  heard,  saying,  "draw  nigh  hither,  and  put  off  thy 


USES  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 


shoes  from  thy  feet ;  for  the  place  where  thou  standest  is 
holy  ground." 

It  is  with  such  reverential  awe  that  every  great  or  ele- 
vated mind  will  approach  to  the  study  of  nature ;  and  with 
such  feelings  of  adoration  and  gratitude,  that  he  will  receive 
the  illumination  that  gradually  opens  upon  his  soul.  It  is 
not  the  lifeless  mass  of  matter,  he  will  then  feel,  that  he  is 
examining;  it  is  the  mighty  machine  of  Eternal  Wisdom, — 
the  workmanship  of  Him,  "in  whom  every  thing  lives,  and 
moves,  and  has  its  being." 

Under  an  aspect  of  this  kind,  it  is  impossible  to  pursue 
knowledge  without  mingling  with  it  the  most  elevated  senti- 
ments of  devotion ;  it  is  impossible  to  perceive  the  laws  of 
nature,  without  perceiving,  at  the  same  time,  the  presence 
and  the  Providence  of  the  Lawgiver; — and  thus  it  is,  that, 
in  every  age,  the  evidences  of  religion  have  advanced  with 
the  progress  of  true  philosophy;  and  that  science,  in  erect- 
ing a  monument  to  herself,  has  at  the  same  time  erected  an 
altar  to  the  Deity. 

The  knowledge  of  nature  is  not  exhausted.  There  are 
many  great  discoveries  yet  awaiting  the  labors  of  science; 
and  with  them  there  are  also  awaiting  to  humanity,  many 
additional  proofs  of  the  wisdom  and  benevolence  "of  Him 
that  made  us."  To  the  hope  of  these  great  discoveries,  few 
indeed  can  pretend;  yet  let  it  be  ever  remembered,  that  he 
who  can  trace  any  one  new  fact,  or  can  exemplify  any  one 
new  instance  of  divine  wisdom  or  benevolence  in  the  sys- 
tem of  nature,  has  not  lived  in  vain, — that  he  has  added  to 
the  sum  of  human  knowledge,— -and,  what  is  far  more,  that 
he  has  added  to  the  evidence  of  those  greater  truths,  upon 
which  the  happiness  of  time  and  eternity  depends. 

The  second  great  end  to  which  all  knowledge  ought  to 
be  employed,  is,  to  the  welfare  of  humanity.  Every  science 
is  the  foundation  of  some  art,  beneficial  to  men;  and  while 
the  study  of  it  leads  us  to  see  the  beneficence  of  the  laws  of 
nature,  it  calls  upon  us  also  to  follow  the  great  end  of  the 
Father  of  Nature,  in  their  employment  and  application.  I 
need  not  say  what  a  field  is  thus  opened  to  the  benevolence 
of  knowledge :  I  need  not  tell  you  that  in  every  department 
of  learning  there  is  good  to  be  done  to  mankind ;  I  need  not 
remind  you,  that  the  age  in  which  we  live  has  given  us  the 
noblest  examples  of  this  kind,  and  that  science  now  finds  its 
highest  glory,  in  improving  the  condition,  or  in  allaying  the 
miseries  of  humanity. 


44  USES  OF  KNOWLEDGE, 

But  there  is  one  thing  of  which  it  is  proper  ever  to 
remind  you, — because  the  modesty  of  knowledge  often  leads 
us  to  forget  it, — and  that  is,  the  power  of  scientific  benevo- 
lence is  far  greater  than  that  of  all  others  to  the  welfare  ot 
society.  The  benevolence  ot  the  opulent,  however  emi- 
nent it  may  be  perishes  with  themselves.  The  benevolence, 
even  of  sovereigns,  is  limited  to  the  narrow  boundary  of  hu- 
man life;  and  not  unfrequently  is  succeeded  by  different 
and  discordant  counsels.  But  the  benevolence  of  knowledge 
is  of  a  kind  as  extensive  as  the  race  of  man,  and  as  perma- 
nent as  the  existence  of  society. 

He,  in  whatever  situation  he  may  be,  who  in  the  study 
of  science  has  discovered  a  new  means  of  alleviating  pain, 
or  of  remedying  disease, — who  has  described  a  wiser  method 
of  preventing  poverty,  or  of  shielding  misfortune, — who  has 
suggested  additional  means  of  increasing  or  improving  the 
beneficent  productions  of  nature, — has  left  a  memorial  ol 
himself  which  can  never  be  forgotten, — which  will  commu- 
nicate happiness  to  ages  yet  unborn, — and  which,  in  the  em- 
phatic language  of  scripture,  renders  him  a  "  fellow-worker'' 
with  God  himself,  in  the  improvement  of  his  Creation. 

The  third  great  end  of  ail  knowledge  is  the  improve 
ment  and  exaltation  of  our  own  minds.  It  was  the  voice  01 
the  apostle, — "  What  manner  of  men  ought  ye  to  be,  to  whom 
the  truths  of  the  Gospel  have  come  ?" — It  is  the  voice  of  na- 
ture also, — "  What  manner  of  men  ought  ye  to  be,  to  whom 
the  treasures  of  wisdom  are  opened  ?" — Of  all  the  spectacles, 
indeed,  which  life  can  offer  us,  there  is  none  more  painful,  or 
unnatural,  than  that  of  the  union  of  vice  with  knowledge. 
It  counteracts  the  great  designs  of  God  in  the  distribution  ol 
wisdom;  and  it  assimilates  men,  not  to  the  usual  character 
of  human  frailty,  but  to  those  dark  and  malignant  spirits  who 
fell  from  heaven,  and  who  excel  in  knowledge  only  that 
they  may  employ  it  in  malevolence. 

To  the  wise  and  virtuous  man,  on  the  contrary, — to  him 
whose  moral  attainments  have  kept  pace  with  his  intellec- 
tual, and  who  has  employed  the  great  talent  with  which  he 
is  intrusted  to  the  glory  of  God,  and  to  the  good  of  humani- 
ty,— is  presented  the  sublimest  prospect  that  mortality  can 
know.  "  In  my  father's  house,"  says  our  Savior,  "  are  many 
mansions ;" — mansions,  we  may  dare  interpret,  fitted  to  the 
different  powers  that  life  has  acquired,  and  to  the  uses  to 
which  they  have  been  applied. 


INTEGRITY  THE  GUIDE  OF  LIFE.  45 


Integrity   the  guide  of  life. 

EVERY  one  who  has  begun  to  make  any  progress  in  the 
world,  will  be  sensible,  that  to  conduct  himself  in  human  af- 
fairs with  wisdom  and  propriety,  is  often  a  matter  of  no  small 
difficulty.  Amidst  that  variety  of  characters,  of  jarring  dis- 
positions, and  of  interfering  interests,  which  take  place  among 
those  with  whom  we  have  intercourse,  we  are  frequently  at 
a  stand  as  to  the  part  most  prudent  for  us  to  choose.  Igno- 
rant of  what  is  passing  in  the  breasts  of  those  around  us, 
we  can  form  no  more  than  doubtful  conjectures  concerning 
the  events  that  are  likely  to  happen. 

They  may  take  some  turn  altogether  different  from  the 
course  in  which  we  have  imagined  they  were  to  run,  accord- 
ing to  which  we  had  formed  our  plans.  The  slightest  inci- 
dent often  shoots  out  into  important  consequences,  of  which 
we  were  not  aware.  The  labyrinth,  becomes  so  intricate, 
that  the  most  sagacious  can  lay  hold  of  no  clue  to  guide  him 
through  it :  he  finds  himself  embarrassed,  and  at  a  loss  how 
to  act. — In  public  and  in  private  life,  in  managing  his  own 
concerns,  and  in  directing  those  of  others,  the  doubt  started 
by  the  wise  man  frequently  occurs  ;  Who  knoweth,  what  is 
good  for  man  in  this  life  ? 

While  thus  fatigued  with  conjecture,  we  remain  per- 
plexed and  undetermined  in  our  choice ;  we  are  at  the  same 
time  pulled  to  different  sides  by  the  various  emotions  which 
belong  to  our  nature.  On  one  hand,  pleasure  allures  us  to 
what  is  agreeable  ;  on  the  other,  interest  weighs  us  down 
toward  what  seems  gainful.  Honor  attracts  us  to  what  is 
splendid;  and  indolence  inclines  us  to  what  is  easy.  In  the 
consultations  which  we  hold  with  our  own  mind  concerning 
our  conduct,  how  often  are  we  thus  divided  within  our- 
selves,— puzzled  by  the  uncertainty  of  future  events,  and 
distracted  by  the  contest  of  different  inclinations  ' 

It  is  in  such  situations  as  these,  that  the  principle  of  in- 
tegrity interposes  to  give  light  and  direction.  While  worldly 
men  fluctuate  in  the  midst  of  those  perplexities  which  I  have 
described,  the  virtuous  man  has  one  oracle  to  which  he  re- 
sorts in  every  dubious  case,  and  whose  decisions  he  holds  to 
be  infallible.  He  consults  his  own  conscience ;  he  listens  to 
the  voice  of  God.  Were  it  only  on  a  few  occasions  that  this 


46  PROOF  OP 


oracle  could  be  consulted,  its  value  would  be  less.     But  it  is 
a  mistake  to  imagine  that  its  responses   are  seldom  given. 

Hardly  is  there  any  material  transaction  whatever  in 
human  life — any  important  question  that  holds  us  in  suspense 
as  to  practice — but  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong  will 
show  itself;  and  the  principle  of  integrity  will,  if  we  listen 
to  it  impartially,  give  a  clear  decision.  Whenever  the  mind 
is  divided  in  itself,  conscience  is  seldom  or  never  neutral. 
There  is  always  one  scale  of  the  balance,  into  which  il 
throws  the  weight  of  some  virtue,  or  some  praise  ;  of  some- 
thing that  is  just  and  true,  lovely,  honest,  and  of  good  report. 

These  are  the  forms  which  rise  to  the  observation  of 
the  upright  man.  By  others  they  may  be  unseen  or  over 
looked;  but  in  his  eye,  the  luster  01  virtue  outshines  al] 
other  brightness.  Wherever  this  pole-star  directs  him,  he 
steadily  holds  his  course. — Let  the  issue  of  that  course  be 
ever  so  uncertain ; — let  his  friends  differ  from  him  in  opin 
ion ; — let  his  enemies  clamor ; — he  is  not  moved  ; — his  pur- 
pose  is  fixed. 

He  asks  but  one  question  of  his  heart, — What  is  the 
part  most  becoming  the  station  which  he  possesses, — the 
character  which  he  wishes  to  bear, — the  expectations  which 
good  men  entertain  o/him?  Being  once  decided  as  to  this, 
he  hesitates  no  more.  He  shuts  his  ears  against  every  solici- 
tation. He  pursues  the  direct  line  of  integrity  without  turn- 
ing either  to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left.  "It  is  the  Lord 
who  calleth.  Him  1  follow.  Let  him  order  what  seemeth 
good  in  his  sight." It  is  in  this  manner  that  the  integri- 
ty of  the  upright  acts  as  his  guide.  Blair 


The  happiness  of  animals  a  proof  of  divine  benevolence. 

THE  air,  the  earth,  the  water,  teem  with  delighted  ex- 
istence. In  a  spring  noon  or  summer  evening,  on  whicli 
ever  side  we  turn  our  eyes,  myriads  of  happy  beings  crowd 
upon  our  view.  "  The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing." 
Swarms  of  new  born  flies  are  trying  their  pinions  in  the  air 
Their  sportive  motions, — their  gratuitous  activity, — their 
continual  change  of  place,  without  use  or  purpose, — testify 
their  joy,  and  the  exultation  which  they  feel  in  their  lately 
discovered  faculties. 

A  bee,  among  the  flowers  in  spring,  is  one  of  the  most 
cheerful  objects  that  can  be  looked  upon.  Its  life  appears  to 


DIVINE  BENEVOLENCE.  '47 


be  all  enjoyment, — so  busy  and  so  pleased, — yet  it  is  only  a 
specimen  of  insect  life,  with  which,  by  reason  of  the  animal's 
being  half  domesticated,  we  happen  to  be  better  acquainted 
than  we  are  with  that  of  otners.  The  whole  winged  insect 
tribe,  it  is  probable,  are  equally  intent  upon  their  proper  em- 
ployments, and  under  every  variety  of  constitution,  gratified, 
and  perhaps  equally  gratified,  by  the  offices  whicfy  the  Au- 
thor of  their  nature  has  assigned  to  them. 

But  the  atmosphere  is  not  the  only  scene  of  their  en- 
joyment. Plants  are  covered  with  little  insects,  greedily- 
sucking  their  juices.  Other  species  are  running  about,  with 
an  alacrity  in  their  motions,  which  carries  with  it  every  mark 
of  pleasure.  Large  patches  of  ground  are  sometimes  half 
covered  with  these  brisk  and  sprightly  natures. 

If  we  look  to  what  the  waters  produce,  shoals  of  fish 
frequent  the  margins  of  rivers,  of  lakes,  and  of  the  sea  itself- 
These  are  so  happy,  that  they  know  not  what  to  do  with 
themselves.  Their  attitudes,  -—their  vivacity — their  leaps 
out  of  the  water — their  frolics  in  it— all  conduce  to  show 
their  excess  of  spirits,  and  are  simply  the  effects  of  that  ex- 
'cess.  Walking  by  the  seaside,  in  a  cairn  evening,  upon  a 
sandy  shore  and  with  an  ebbing  tide,  I  have  frequently  re- 
marked the  appearance  of  a  dark  cloud,  or  rather  very  thick 
mist,  hanging  over  the  edge  of  the  water  to  the  height  per- 
haps of  half  a  yard,  and  ofthe  breadth  of  two  or  three  yards, 
stretching  along  the  coast  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  and 
always  retiring  with  the  water. 

When  this  cloud  came  to  be  examined,  it  proved  to  be 
so  much  space  filled  with  young  shrimps,  in  the  act  of 
bounding  into  the  air  from  the  shallow  margin  of  the  water, 
or  from  the  wet  sand.  If  any  motion  of  a  mute  animal 
could  express  delight,  it  was  this:  if  they  had  designed  to 
make  signs  of  their  happiness,  they  could  not  have  done  it 
more  intelligibly.  Suppose,  then,  what  there  is  no  reason 
to  doubt,  each  individual  of  this  number  to  be  in  a  state  of 
positive  enjoyment, — what  a  sum,  collectively,  of  gratifica- 
tion and  pleasure  have  we  here  before  our  view ! 

The  young  of  all  animals  appear  to  receive  pleasure, 
simply  from  the  exercise  of  their  limbs  and  bodily  faculties, 
without  reference  to  any  end  to  be  attained,  or  any  use  to  be 
answered  by  the  exertion.  A  child,  Avithout  knowing  any 
thing  of  the  use  of  language,  is  in  a  high  degree  delighted 
with  being  able  to  speak.  Its  incessant  repetition  of  a  few 
articulate  sounds,  or  perhaps  of  a  single  word  which  it  has 
learned  to  pronounce,  proves  this  point  clearly. 


48  DIVINE  BENEVOLENCE. 

Nor  is  it  less  pleased  with  its  first  successful  endeavors 
to  walk,  although  entirely  ignorant  of  the  importance  of  the 
attainment  to  its  future  life,  and  even  without  applying  it  to 
any  present  purpose.  A  child  is  delighted  with  speaking, 
without  having  any  thing  to  say, — and  with  walking,  without 
knowing  whither  to  go.  And  previously  to  both  these,  it  is 
reasonable  to  believe,  that  the  waking  hours  of  infancy  are 
agreeably  taken  up  with  the  exercise  of  vision,  or  perhaps 
more  properly  speaking,  with  learning  to  see. 

But  it  is  not  for  youth  alone  that  the  great  Parent  of 
creation  has  provided.  Happiness  is  found  with  the  purring 
cat,  no  less  than  with  the  playful  kitten, — in  the  arm-chair 
of  dozing  age,  as  well  as  in  the  sprightliness  of  the  dance,  or 
the  animation  of  the  chace.  To  novelty,  to  acuteness  of 
sensation,  to  hope,  to  ardor  of  pursuit,  succeeds,  what  is  in 
no  inconsiderable  degree  an  equivalent  for  them  all,  "per- 
ception of  ease." 

Herein  is  the  exact  difference  between  the  young*  and 
the  old.  The  young  are  not  happy  but  when  enjoying  plea- 
sure; the  old  are  happy  when  free  from  pain.  And  this 
constitution  suits  with  the  degrees  of  animal  power  which 
they- respectively  possess.  The  vigor  of  youth  was  to  be 
stimulated  to  action  by  impatience  of  rest ;  while  to  the  im- 
becility of  age,  quietness  and  repose  become  positive  gratifi- 
cations. In  one  important  respect  the  advantage  is  with  the 
old.  A  state  of  ease  is,  generally  speaking,  more  attainable 
than  a  state  of  pleasure.  A  constitution,  therefore,  which  can 
enjoy  ease,  is  preferable  to  that  which  can  taste  only  pleasure. 
This  same  perception  of  ease  oftentimes  renders  old 
age  a  condition  of  great  comfort ;  especially  when  riding  at 
its  anchor,  after  a  busy  or  tempestuous  life.  It  is  well  de- 
scribed by  Rousseau  to  be  the  interval  of  repose  and  enjoy- 
ment, between  the  hurry  and  the  end  of  life.  How  far  the 
same  cause  extends  to  other  animal  natures,  cannot  be 
judged  of  with  certainty.  The  appearance  of  satisfaction 
with  which  most  animals,  as  their  activity  subsides,  seek 
and  enjoy  rest,  affords  reason  to  believe,  that  this  source  of 
gratification  is  appointed  to  advanced  life,  under  all,  or  most 
of  its  various  forms. 

There  is  much  truth  in  the  following  representation 
given  by  Dr.  Percival,  a  very  pious  writer,  as  well  as  excel- 
lent man : — "  To  the  intelligent  and  virtuous,  old  age  pre- 
sents a  scene  of  tranquil  enjoyments,  of  obedient  appetites, 
of  well  regulated  affections,  of  maturity  in  knowledge,  and 
of  calm  preparation  for  immortality.  In  this  serene  and  dig 


THE  SEASONS.  49 


nified  state,  placed  as  it  were  on  the  confines  of  the  two 
worlds,  the  mind  of  a  good  man  reviews  what  is  past  with 
the  complacency  of  an  approving  conscience;  and  looks  for- 
ward, with  humble  mercy  in  the  confidence  of  God,  and  with 
devout  aspirations  towards  his  eternal  and  ever-increasing 
favor."  Paley. 


The  Seasons. 

PERSONS  of  reflection  and  sensibility,  contemplate  with 
interest  the  scenes  of  nature.  The  changes  of  the  year  impart 
a  color  and  character  to  their  thoughts  and  feelings.  When 
the  seasons  walk  their  round. — when  the  earth  buds,  the 
corn  ripens,  and  the  leaf  falls — not  only  are  the  senses  im- 
pressed, but  the  mind  is  instructed;  the  heart  is  touched 
with  sentiment,  the  fancy  amused  with  visions.  To  a  lover 
of  nature  and  of  wisdom,  the  vicissitudes  of  the  season  con- 
vey a  proof  and  exhibition  of  the  wise  and  benevolent  con- 
trivance of  the  Author  of  all  things. 

When  suffering  the  inconveniences  of  the  ruder  parts 
of  the  year,  we  may  be  tempted  to  wonder  why  this  rotation 
is  necessary— why  we  could  not  be  constantly  gratified  with 
vernal  bloom  and  fragrance,  or  summer  beauty  and  profusion. 
We  imagine  that,  in  a  world  of  our  creation,  there  would  al- 
ways be  a  blessing  in  the  air,  and  flowers  and  fruits  on  the 
earth.  The  chilling  blasts  and  driving  snow, — the  desolated 
field,  withered  foliage,  and  naked  tree, — should  make  no 
part  of  the  scenery  which  we  would  produce.  A  little 
thought,  however,  is  sufficient  to  show  the  folly,  if  not  im- 
piety, of  such  distrust  in  the  appointments  of  the  great 
C-reator. 

The  succession  and  contrast  of  the  seasons,  give  scope 
to  that  care  and  foresight,  diligence  and  industry,  which  are 
essential  to  the  dignity  and  enjoyment  of  human  beings, 
whose  happiness  is  connected  with  the  exertion  of  their  fa- 
culties. With  our  present  constitution  and  state,  in  which 
impressions  on  the  senses  enter  so  much  into  our  pleasures 
and  pains,  and  the  vivacity  of  our  sensations  is  affected  by- 
comparison, — the  uniformity  and  continuance  of  a  perpetual 
spring,  would  greatly  impair  its  pleasing  effect  upon  our  feel- 
ings. 

The  present  distribution  of  the  several  parts  of  the 
year,  is  evidently  connected  with  the  welfare  of  the  whole. 


60  THE  SEASONS. 


and  the  production  of  the  greatest  sum  of  bein^  and  enjoy- 
ment. That  motion  in  the  earth,  and  change  of  place  in  the 
sun,  which  cause  one  region  of  the  globe  to  be  consigned  to 
cold,  decay,  and  barrenness,  impart  to  another  heat  and  life, 
fertility  and  beauty.  While  in  our  climate  the  earth  is  bound 
with  frost,  and  the  "  chilly  smothering  snows"  are  falling, 
the  inhabitants  of  another  behold  the  earth  planted  with  ve- 
getation and  appareled  in  verdure,  and  those  of  a  third  are 
rejoicing  in  the  appointed  weeks  of  a  harvest. 

Each  season  comes,  attended  with  its  benefits  and 
pleasures.  All  are  sensible  of  the  charms  of  spring.  Then 
the  senses  are  delighted  with  the  feast  that  is  furnished  on 
every  field,  and  on  every  hill.  The  eye  is  sweetly  delayed 
on  every  object  to  which  it  turns.  It  is  grateful  to  perceive 
how  widely,  yet  chastely,  nature  has  mixed  her  colors  and 
painted  her  robe, — how  bountifully  she  has  scattered  her 
blossoms  aud  flung  her  odors.  We  listen  with  joy  to  the 
melody  she  has  awakened  in  the  groves,  and  catch  health 
from  the  pure  and  tepid  gales  that  blow  from  the  mountains. 

When  the  summer  exhibits  the  whole  force  of  active 
jiature,  and  shines  in  full  beauty  and  splendor, — when  the 
succeeding  season  offers  its  "purple  stores  and  golden  grain," 
or  displays  its  blended  and  softened  tints, — when  the  winter 
puts  on  its  sullen  aspect,  and  brings  stillness  and  repose, 
affording  a  resptt  from  the  labors  which  have  occupied  the 
preceding  months,  inviting  us  to  reflection,  and  compensa- 
ting for  the  want  of  attractions  abroad,  by  fireside  delights, 
and  home-felt  joys, —  in  all  this  interchange  and  variety,  we 
find  reason  to  acknowledge  the  wise  and  benevolent  care  of 
the  God  of  seasons. 

We  are  passing  from  the  finer  to  the  ruder  portions  of 
the  year.  The  sun  emits  a  fainter  beam,  and  the  sky  is 
frequently  overcast.  The  gardens  and  fields  have  become  a 
waste  and  the  forests  have  shed  their  verdant  honors.  The 
hills  are  no  more  enlivened  with  the  bleating  of  flocks,  and 
the  woodland  no  longer  resounds  with  the  song  of  birds.  In 
these  changes  we  see  evidences  of  our  own  instability,  and 
images  of  our  transitory  state. 

Our  life  is  compared  to  a  falling  leaf.  When  we  are 
disposed  to  count  on  protracted  years, — to  defer  any  serious 
thoughts  of  futurity,  and  to  extend  our  plans  through  a  Ipng 
succession  of  seasons, — the  spectacle  of  the  "fading  many- 
colored  woods,"  and  the  naked  trees,  affords  a  salutary  ad- 
monition of  our  frailty.  It  should  teach  us  to  fill  the  short 
year  of  our  life,  or  that  portion  of  it  which  may  be  allotted 


SWIFTNESS  OF  TIME.  51 


to  us,  with  useful  employments  and  harmless  pleasures, — to 
practice  that  industry,  activity,  and  order,  which  the  course 
of  the  natural  world  is  constantly  preaching. 

Let  not  the  passions  blight  the  intellect  in  the  spring  of 
its  advancement ;  nor  indolence  nor  vice  canker  the  promise 
of  the  heart  in  the  blossom.  Then  shall  the  summer  of  life 
be  adorned  with  moral  beauty, — the  autumn  yield  a  harvest 
of  wisdom  and  virtue, — and  the  winter  of  age  be  cheered 
with  pleasing  reflections  on  the  past,  and  bright  hopes  of  the 
future.  Monthly  Anthology. 


On  the  Swiftness  of  Time. 

THE  natural  advantages  which  arise  from  the  position 
of  the  earth  we  inhabit,  with  respect  to  the  other  planets,  af- 
ford much  employment  to  mathematical  speculation, — by 
which  it  has  been  discovered*,  that  no  other  conformation  of 
the  system  could  have  given  such  commodious  distributions 
of  light  and  heat,  or  have  imparted  fertility  and  pleasure  to 
so  great  a  part  of  a  revolving  sphere. 

It  may  perhaps  be  observed  by  the  moralist,  with  equal 
reason,  that  our  globe  seems  particularly  fitted  for  the  resi- 
dence of  a  being,  placed  here  only  for  a  short  time,  whose 
task  is  to  advance  himself  to  a  higher  and  happier  state  of 
existence,  by  unremitted  vigilance  of  caution,  and  activity 
of  virtue. 

The  duties  required  of  man,  are  such  as  human  nature 
does  not  willingly  perform,  and  such  as  those  are  inclined  to 
delay,  who  yet  intend,  at  some  time,  to  fulfill  them.  It  was 
therefore  necessary,  that  this  universal  reluctance  should  be 
counteracted,  and  the  drowsiness  of  hesitation  wakened  into 
resolve, — that  the  danger  of  procrastination  should  be  always 
in  view,  and  the  fallacies  of  security  be  hourly  detected. 

To  this  end  all  the  appearances  of  nature  uniformly 
conspire.  Whatever  we  see,  on  every  side,  reminds  us  of 
the  lapse  of  time  and  the  flux  of  life.  The  day  and  night 
succeed  each  other;  the  rotation  of  seasons  diversifies  the 
year ;  the  sun  rises,  attains  the  meridian,  declines  and  sets  j 
and  the  moon,  every  night,  changes  its  form. 

The  day  has  been  considered  as  an  image  of  the  year, 
and  a  year  as  the  representation  of  life.  The  morning  an- 
swers to  the  spring,  and  the  spring  to  childhood  and  youth. 
The  noon  corresponds  to  the  summer,  and  the  summer  to 


62  SWIFTNESS, OF  TIME. 

the  strength  of  manhood.  The  evening  is  an  emolem  of 
autumn,  and  autumn  of  declining  life.  The  night,  with  its 
silence  and  darkness,  shows  the  winter,  in  which  all  the  pow- 
ers of  vegetation  are  henumbed  ;  and  the  winter  points  out 
the  time  Avhen  life  shall  cease,  with  its  hopes  and  pleasures. 

He  that  is  carried  forward,  however  swiftly,  by  a  mo- 
tion equable  and  easy,  perceives  not  the  change  of  place  but 
by  the  variation  of  objects.  If  the  wheel  of  life  which  rolls 
thus  silently  along,  passed  on  with  undistinguishable  uni- 
formity, we  should  never  mark  its  approaches  to  the  end  of 
the  course.  If  one  hour  were  like  another, — if  the  passage 
of  the  sun  did  not  show  that  the  day  is  wasting, — if  the 
change  of  seasons  did  not  impress  upon  us  the  flight  of  the 
year, — quantities  of  duration,  equal  to  days  and  years,  would 
glide  unobserved. 

If  the  parts  of  time  were  not  variously  colored,  we 
should  never  discern  their  departure  or  succession;  but 
should  live,  thoughtless  of  the  past,  and  careless  of  the  fu- 
ture,— without  will,  and  perhaps  without  power  to  compute 
the  periods  of  life,  or  to  compare  the  time  which  is  already 
lost  with  that  which  may  probably  remain. 

But  the  course  of  time  is  so  visibly  marked,  that  it  is 
even  observed  by  the  passage, — and  by  nations  who  have 
raised  their  minds  very  little  above  animal  instinct:  there 
are  human  beings,  whose  language  does  not  supply  them 
with  words  by  which  they  can  number  live ;  but  I  have  read 
of  none  that  have  not  names  for  day  and  night,  for  summer 
and  winter. 

Yet  it  is  certain  that  these  admonitions  of  nature,  how- 
ever importunate,  are  too  often  vain ;  and  that  many,  who 
mark  with  such  accuracy  the  course  of  time,  appear  to  have 
little  sensibility  of  the  decline  of  life.  Every  man  has  some- 
hing  to  do  which  he  neglects  ;  every  man  has  faults  to  con- 
quer which  he  delays  to  combat. 

So  little  do  we  accustom  ourselves  to  consider  the  ef- 
fects of  time,  that  things  necessary  and  certain,  often  surprise 
us  like  unexpected  contingencies.  We  leave  the  beauty  in 
her  bloom,  and,  after  an  absence  of  twenty  years,  wonder  at 
our  return  to  find  her  faded.  We  meet  those  whom  we  left 
children,  and  can  scarcely  persuade  ourselves  to  treat  them 
as  men.  The  traveler  visits,  in  age,  those  countries  through 
which  he  rambled  in  his  youth,  and  hopes  for  merriment  at 
the  old  place.  The  man  of  business,  wearied  with  unsatis- 
factory prosperity,  retires  to  the  town  of  his  nativity,  and  ex- 


UNRESTRAINED  PASSIONS.  53 


pects  to  play  away  his  last  years  with  the  companions  of  his 
childhood,  and  recover  youth  in  the  fields  where  he  once 
was  young. 

From  this  inattention — so  general  and  so  mischievous 
— let  it  he  every  man's  study  to  exempt  himself.  Let  him 
that  desires  to  see  others  happy,  make  haste  to  give  while 
his  gift  can  he  enjoyed;  and  remember,  that  every  moment 
of  delay  takes  away  something  from  the  value  of  his  benefac- 
tion, and  let  him  who  proposes  his  own  happiness,  reflect, 
that  while  he  forms  his  purpose  the  day  rolls  on,  and  "  the 
night  cometh  when  no  man  can  work."  Dr.  Johnson. 


The  unhappiness  resulting  from  unrestrained  passions. 

THE  passions  are  those  strong  emotions  of  the  mind, 
which  impel  it  to  desire  and  to  act  with  vehemence.  When 
directed  toward  proper  objects,  and  kept  within  just  bounds, 
they  possess  a  useful  place  in  our  frame, — they  add  vigor 
and  energy  to  the  mind,  and  enable  it,  on  great  occasions,  to 
act  with  uncommon  force  and  success  ;  but  they  always  re- 
quire the  government  and  restraint  of  reason. 

It  is  in  the  mind  just  as  it  is  in  the  body.  Every  mem- 
ber of  the  body  is  useful,  and  serves  some  good  purpose.  Btrt 
if  any  one  swell  to  an  enormous  size,  it  presently  becomes  a 
disease.  Thus,  when  a  man's  passions  go  on  in  a  calm  and 
moderate  train,  and  no  object  takes  an  inordinate  hold  of 
any  of  them,  his  spirit  is  in  this  part  sound,  and  his  life  pro- 
ceeds with  tranquillity.  But  if  any  of  them  be  so  far  indul- 
ged and  left  without  restraint  as  to  run  into  excess,  a  danger- 
ous blow  will  then  be  given  to  the  heart. 

Supposing,  for  instance,  that  some  passion,  even  of  the 
nature  of  those  which  are  reckoned  innocent,  shall  so  far 
seize  a  man,  as  to  conquer  and  overpower  him  ; — his  tranquil- 
lity will  be  destroyed.  The  balance  of  his  soul  is  lost;  he  is 
ho  longer  his  own  master,  nor  is  capable  of  attending  prop- 
erly to  the  offices  of  life  which  are  incumbent  on  him,  or  of 
turning  his  thoughts  into  any  other  direction  than  what  pas- 
sion points  out.  He  may  be  sensible  of  the  wound, — may  feel 
the  dart  that  is  fixed  in  his  breast,  but  is  unable  to  extract  it. 

But  the  case  becomes  infinitely  worse,  if  the  passion 
which  has  seized  a  man  be  of  the  vicious  and  malignant  kind. 
Let  him  be  placed  in  the  most  prosperous  situation  of  life, — 
eive  him  external  ease  and  affluence  to  the  full,  and  let  his 


64  IDLE  CURIOSITY. 


character  be  high  and  applauded  by  the  world, — yet,  if  into 
the  heart  of  this  man  there  has  stolen  some  dark,  jealous  sus- 
picion,— some  rankling  envy,  some  pining  discontent, — that 
instant  his  temper  is  soured,  and  poison  is  scattered  over  all 
his  joys.  He  dwells  in  secret  upon  his  vexations  and  cares; 
and  while  the  crowd  admire  his  prosperity,  he  envies  the 
more  peaceful  condition  of  the  peasant  and  the  hind. 

If  his  passions  chance  to  be  of  the  more  fierce  and  out- 
rageous nature,  the  painful  feelings  they  produce  will  be  still 
more  intense  and  acute.  By  violent  passions  the  heart  is  not 
only  wounded,  but  torn  and  rent.  As  long  as  a  man  is  under 
the  workings  of  raging  ambition,  disappointed  pride,  and 
keen  thirst  for  revenge,  he  remains  under  immediate  torment 
Over  his  dark  and  scowling  mind,  gloomy  ideas  continually 
brood.  His  transient  fits  of  merriment  and  joy,  are  like 
beams  of  light,  breaking  occasionally  from  the  black  clouds 
that  carries  the  thunder. 

What  greatly  aggravates  the  misery  of  such  persons,  is, 
that  they  dare  make  no  complaints.  When  the  body  is  dis- 
eased or  wounded,  to  our  friends  we  naturally  fly ;  and  from 
their  sympathy  or  assistance  expect  relief.  But  the  wounds 
given  to  the  heart  by  ill-governed  passions,  are  of  an  oppro- 
brious nature,  and  must  be  stifled  in  secret.  The  slave  of 
passion  can  unbosom  himself  to  no  friend  ;  and,  instead  of 
sympathy,  dreads  meeting  with  ridicule  or  contempt. 

Blair. 


Of  curiosity  concerning  the  affairs  of  others. 

THAT  idle  curiosity, — that  inquisitive  and  meddling 
spirit,  which  leads  men  to  pry  into  the  affairs  of  their  neigh- 
bors,— is  reprehensible  on  three  accounts.  It  interrupts  the 
good  order,  and  breaks  the  peace  of  society.  It  brings  for- 
ward and  nourishes  several  bad  passions.  It  draws  men  aside 
from  a  proper  attention  to  the  discharge  of  their  own  duty. 

It  interrupts,  I  say,  the  order,  and  breaks  the  peace  of 
society.  In  this  world  we  are  linked  together  by  many  ties 
We  are  bound  by  duty,  and  we  are  prompted  by  interest,  to 
give  mutual  assistance,  and  to  perform  friendly  offices  to 
each  other.  But  those  friendly  offices  are  performed  to  the 
most  advantage,  when  we  avoid  to  interfere,  unnecessarily,  in 
the  concerns  of  our  neighbor.  Every  man  has  his  own  part 


IDLE  CURIOSITY.  65 


to  act — has  his  own  interest  to  consult — has  affairs  of  his 
own  to  manage — which  his  neighbor  has  no  call  to  scrutinize. 

Human  life  then  proceeds  in  its  most  natural  and  orderly 
train,  when  every  one  keeps  within  the  bounds  of  his  proper 
province, — when,  as  long  as  his  pursuits  are  fair  and  lawful, 
he  his  allowed,  without  disturbance,  to  conduct  them  in  his 
own  way.  That  ye  study  to  be  quiet  and  do  your  own  busi- 
ness, is  the  apostolic  rule,  and  indeed  the  great  rule  for  the 
preservation  of  harmony  and  order. 

But  so  it  is,  that  in  every  age  a  set  of  men  have  existed, 
who,  driven  by  an  unhappy  activity  of  spirit,  oftener,  per- 
haps, than  by  any  settled  design  of  doing  ill,  or  any  motives 
of  ambition  or  interest,  love  to  intermeddle  where  they  have 
no  concern, — to  inquire  into  the  private  affairs  of  others,  and, 
from  the  imperfect  information  they  collect,  to  form,  conclu- 
sions respecting  their  circumstances  and  character.  These 
are  they  who,  in  Scripture,  are  characterized  as  tattlers  and 
busy  bodies  in  other  men's  matters,  and  from  whom  we  are 
called  to  turn  away. 

Though  persons  of  this  description  should  be  prompted 
by  nothing  but  vain  curiosity,  they  are,  nevertheless,  danger- 
ous troublers  of  the  world.  While  they  conceive  themselves 
to  be  inoffensive,  they  are  sowing  dissension  and  feuds. 
Crossing  the  lines  in  which  others  move,  they  create  confu- 
sion, and  awaken  resentment. — For  every  man  conceives 
himself  to  be  injured,  when  he  finds  another  intruding  into 
his  affairs,  and,  without  any  title,  taking  upon  him  to  exam- 
ine his  conduct.  Being  improperly  and  unnecessarily  dis- 
turbed, he  claims  the  right  of  disturbing,  in  his  turn,  those  who 
have  wantonly  troubled  him. 

Hence  many  a  friendship  has  been  broken  ;  the  peace 
of  many  a  family  has  been  overthrown  ;  and  much  bitter  and 
lasting  discord  has  been  propagated  through  society.  While 
this  spirit  of  meddling  curiosity,  injures  so  considerably  the 
peace  and  good  order^of  the  world,  it  also  nourishes,  among 
individuals  who  are  addicted  to  it,  a  multitude  of  bad  passions. 
Its  most  frequent  source  is  mere  idleness,  which,  in  itself  a 
vice,  never  fails  to  engender  many  vices  more.  The  mind  of 
man  cannot  be  long  without  some  food  to  nourish  the  activity 
of  its  thoughts. 

'  The  idle  who  have  no  nourishment  of  this  sort  within 
themselves,  feed  their  thoughts  with  inquiries  into  the  con- 
duct of  their  neighbors.  The  inquisitive  and  curious  are  al- 
ways talkative.  What  they  learn,  or  fancy  themselves  to 
have  learned,  concerning  others,  they  are  generally  in  haste 


56  IDLE  CURIOSITY. 


to  divulge.  A  tale  which  the  malicious  have  invented,  and 
the  credulous  have  propagated,  — a  rumor,  which  arising 
among  the  multitude,  and  transmitted  by  one  to  another  has 
in  every  step  of  its  progress  gained  fresh  additions, — hecomes 
in  the  end  the  foundation  of  confident  assertion,  and  of  rash 
and  severe  judgment. 

It  is  often  by  a  spirit  of  jealousy  and  rivalry,  that  the 
researches  of  such  persons  are  prompted.  They  wish  to  dis- 
cover something  that  will  bring  down  their  neighbor's  cha- 
racter, circumstances,  or  reputation,  to  the  level  of  their  own  ; 
or  that  will  flatter  them  with  an  opinion  of  their  own  supe- 
riority. 

A  secret  malignity  lies  at  the  bottom  of  their  inquiries. 
It  may  be  concealed  by  an  affected  show  of  candor  arid  im- 
partiality. It  may  even  be  veiled  with  the  appearance  of  a 
friendlv  concern  for  the  interest  of  others,  and  with  affected 
apologies  for  their  failings.  But  the  hidden  rancor  is  easily 
discovered. — While,  therefore,  persons  of  this  description 
trouble  the  peace  of  society,  they  at  the  same  time  poison 
their  own  minds  with  malignant  passions. 

Their  disposition  is  entirely  the  reverse  of  that  amia- 
ble spirit  of  charity,  on  which  our  religion  lays  so  great  a 
stress.  Gharily  covereth  the  multitude  of  sins ;  but  this 
prying  and  meddling  spirit  seeks  to  discover  and  divulge  them. 
Charity  thinketh  no  evil;  but  this  temper  inclines  us  always 
to  suspect  the  worst.  Charity  r e jo iceth  not  in  iniquity  ;  this 
temper  triumphs  in  the  discovery  of  errors  and  failings.  Cha- 
rity, like  the  sun,  brightens  every  object  upon  which  it  shines : 
a  censorious  disposition  casts  every  character  into  the  dark- 
est shade  it  will  bear. 

To  be  entirely  unemployed  and  idle,  is  the  prerogative 
of  no  one  in  any  rank  of  life.  Even  that  sex,  whose  task  is 
not  to  mingle  in  the  labors  of  public  and  active  business,  have 
their  own  part  assigned  them  to  act.  In  the  quiet  of  domes- 
tic shade,  there  are  a  variety  of  virtues  to  be  exercised,  and 
of  important  duties  to  be  discharged.  Much  depends  on  them, 
for  the  maintenance  of  private  economy  and  order, — for  the 
education  of  the  young,  and  for  the  relief  and  comfort  of  those 
whose  functions  engage  them  in  the  toils  of  the  world. 

Even  where  no  such  female  duties  occur  to  be  perform- 
ed, the  care  of  preparing  for  future  usefulness  and  of  attain- 
ing such  accomplishments  as  procure  just  esteem,  is  laudable. 
In  such  duties  and  cares,  how  far  better  is  time  employed, 
than  in  that  search  into  private  concerns, — that  circulation  of 


MISERIES  SELF  PRODUCED.  .57 


rumors, — those  discussions  of  the  conduct,  and  descants  on 
the  character  of  others  which  engross  conversation  so  much, 
itnd  which  end,  for  the  mo?t  part,  in  severity  of  censure. 

In  whatever  condition  we  are  placed,  to  act  always  in 
character  should  be  our  constant  rule.  He  Avho  acts  in  cha- 
racter is  above  contempt,  though  His  station  be  low.  He  who 
acts  out  of  character  is  despicable,  though  his  station  be  ever 
so  high.  \\ liat  is  that  to  l/iee  what  this  or  that  man  does  1 
Think  of  what  thou  ought  to  do  thyself,  or  what  is  suitable 
to  thy  character  and  place, — of  what  the  world  has  a  title  to 
expect  from  thee.  Every  excursion  of  vain  curiosity  about 
others,  is  a  subtraction  from  that  time  and  thought  which  are 
due  to  ourselves,  and  due  to  God. 

In  the  great  circle  of  human  affairs,  there  is  no  room  for 
every  one  to  be  busy  and  employed  in  his  own  province, 
without  encroaching  upon  that  of  others.  Art  thou  poor? — 
Show  thyself  active  and  industrious,  peaceable  and  content- 
ed. Art  thou  wealthy  ?— Show  thyself  beneficent  and  cha- 
ritable, condescending  and  humane.  If  thou  lives:  much  in 
the  world,  it  is  thy  duty  to  make  the  light  of  a  good  example, 
shine  conspicuously  before  others. 

There  is,  indeed,  no  man  so  sequestered  from  active 
life,  but  within  his  own  narrow  sphere  he  may  find  some  op- 
portunities of  doing  good. — of  cultivating  friendship,  promo- 
ting peace,  and  discharging  many  of  those  lesser  offices  of 
humanity  and  kindness,  which  are  within  the  reach  of  every 
one,  and  which  we  owe  to  one  another. — In  all  the  various 
relations  which  subsist  among  us  in  life,  as  husband  and  wife, 
master  and  servant,  parents  and  children,  relations  and 
friends,  innumerable  duties  stand  ready  to  be  performed; 
innumerable  calls  to  virtuous  activity  present  themselves  on 
every  hand,  sufficient  to  fill  up,  with  advantage  and  honor,  the 
whole  time  of  man.  Ulair. 


The  miseries  of  men  mostly  of  their  oicn  procuring. 

As  far  as  inward  disquietude  arises  from  the  stings  of 
conscience,  and  the  horrors  of  guilt,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of 
its  being  self-created  misery,  which  it  is  altogether  impossi- 
ble to  impute  to  Heaven.  But  even  when  great  crimes  and 
deep  remorse  are  not  the  occasions  of  torment,  how  often  is 
poison  infused  into  the  most  flourishing  conditions  of  fortune, 
by  the  follies  and  the  passions  of  the  prosperous  ? 


68  MISERIES  SELF  PRODUCED. 

'  We  see  tnem  peevish  and  restless, — corrupted  with  lux- 
ury, and  enervated  by  ease. — impatient  of  the  smallest  dis- 
appointment,— oppressed  with  low  spirits,  and  complaining 
of  every  thing  around  them.  'Dare  such  men,  in  their  most 
discontented  moments,  charge  the  providence  of  Heaven  with 
miseries  of  their  own  procuring?  Providence  had  put  into 
their  hands  the  fairest  opportunity  of  passing  their  lives  with 
comfort.  But  they  themselves  blasted  every  comfort  that 
was  afforded,  and  verified  the  prediction,  that  Ike  prosperity 
of  fools  shall  destroy  them. 

As  it  is  man's  own  foolishness  which  ruins  his  prospe- 
rity, we  must  not  omit  to  remark,  that  it  is  the  same  cause 
which  aggravates  and  imbitters  his  adversity.  That  you 
suffer  from  the  external  afflictions  of  the  world,  may  often  be 
owing  to  God's  appointment;  but  when  in  the  midst  of 
these  you  also  suffer  from  the  disorders  of  your  mind  and 
passions,  this  is  owing  to  yourselves;  and  they  are  those  in- 
ward disorders  which  add  the  severest  sting  to  external  af- 
flictions. 

Many  are  the  resources  of  a  good  and  wise  man  under 
the  disasters  of  life.  In  the  midst  of  them,  it  is  always  in 
his  power  to  enjoy  peace  of  mind  and  hope  in  God.  He 
may  suffer ;  but  under  suffering  he  will  not  sink,  as  long  as 
all  is  sound  within.  But  when  the  spirit  has  been  wounded 
by  guilt  and  folly,  its  wounds  open  and  bleed  afresh,  upon 
every  blow  that  is  received  from  the  world.  The  mind  be- 
comes sensible  and  sore  to  the  slightest  injuries  of  fortune } 
and  a  small  reverse  is  felt  as  an  insupportable  calamity. 

On  the  whole,  the  farther  you  search  into  human  life, 
and  the  more  you  observe  the  manners  and  the  conduct  ot 
men,  you  will  be  the  more  convinced  of  this  great  truth — 
that  of  the  distresses  which  abound  in  the  world,  we  are  the 
chief  authors.  Among  the  multitudes  who  are  at  this  day 
bewailing  their  condition  and  lot,  it  will  be  found  to  hold  of 
far  the  greater  part,  that  they  are  reaping  the  fruit  of  their 
own  doings. 

Unattainable  objects  foolishly  pursued,  intemperate  pas- 
sions nourished,  vicious  pleasures  and  desires  indulged, — 
these  are  the  great  scourges  of  the  world, — the  great  causes 
of  the  life  of  man  being  so  embroiled  and  unhappy.  God 
has  ordained  our  state  on  earth  to  be  a  mixed  and  imperfect 
state.  We  have  ourselves  to  blame  for  its  becoming  an  in- 
supportable one.  If  it  bring  forth  to  us  nothing  but  vexation 
and  vanity,  we  have  sown  the  seeds  of  that  vanity  and  rexa- 
Uon ;  and  as  we  have  sown  we  must  reap. 


WORKS  OF  THE  CREATOR.  59 


The,  Creator's  works  attest  his  greatness. 

WE  find  ourselves  in  an  immense  universe,  where  it  is 
impossible  for  us,  without  astonishment  and  awe,  to  contem- 
plate the  glory  and  the  power  of  Him  who  created  it.  From 
the  greatest  to  the  least  object  that  we  behold  ;— from  the  star 
that  glitters  in  the  heavens  to  the  insect  that  creeps  upon  the 
ground ; — from  the  thunder  that  rolls  in  the  skies,  to  the  flower 
that  blossoms  in  the  fields  ; — all  things  testify  a  profound 
and  mysterious  Wisdom, — a  mighty  and  all  powerful  Hand, 
before  which  we  must  tremble  and  adore. 

Neither  the  causes  nor  the  issues  of  the  events  which 
we  behold,  is  it  in  our  power  to  trace  ;  neither  how  wecame 
into  this  world,  nor  whither  we  go  when  we  retire  from  it, 
are  we  able  of  ourselves  to  tell ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  find 
ourselves  surrounded  with  astonishing  magnificence  on  every 
hand.  We  walk  through  the  earth  as  through  the  apart- 
ments of  a  vast  palace,  which  fill  every  attentive  spectator 
with  wonder.  All  the  works  which  our  power  can  erect, — 
all  the  ornaments  which  our  art  can  contrive, — are  feeUe  and 
trifling  in  comparison  with  those  glories,  which  nature  every 
where  presents  to  our  view. 

The  immense  arch  of  the  heavens,  the  splendor  of  the 
sun  in  his  meridian  brightness,  or  the  beauty  of  his  rising 
and  setting  hours, — the  rich  landscape  of  the  fields,  and  the 
boundless  expanse  of  the  ocean, — are  scenes  which  mock 
every  rival  attempt  of  human  skill  or  labor.  Nor  is  it  only 
in  the  splendid  appearances  of  nature,  but  amid  its  rudest 
forms  that  we  trace  the  hand  of  the  Divinity.  In  the  solita- 
ry desert  and  the  high  mountain, — in  the  hanging  precipice, 
the  roaring  torrent,  and  the  aged  forest, — though  there  be 
nothing  to  cheer,  there  is  much  to  strike  the  mind  with  awe, 
to  give  rise  to  those  solemn  and  sublime  sensations,  which 
elevate  the  heart  to  an  Almighty,  All-creating  Power. — Blair. 


The  advantages  of  a  taste  for  Natural  History. 

WHEN  a  young  person  who  has  enjoyed  the  benefit  of  a 
liberal  education,  instead  of  leading  a  life  of  indolence,  dis- 
sipation, or  vice,  employs  himself  in  studying  the  marks  of 
infinite  wisdom  and  goodness,  which  are  manifested  in  every 
part  of  the  visible  creation, — we  know  not  which  we  ought 


00  TASTE  FOR  NATURAL  HISTORY. 

most  to  congratulate,  the  public,  or  the  individual.  Self- 
taught  naturalists  are  often  found  to  make  no  little  progress 
in  knowledge,  and  to  strike  out  many  new  lights,  by  the  mere 
aid  of  original  genius  and  patient  application. 

But  the  well  educated  youth  engages  in  these  pursuits 
with  peculiar  advantage.  He  takes  more  comprehensive 
views,  is  able  to  consult  a  greater  variety  of  authors,  and, 
from  the  early  habits  of  his  mind,  is  more  accurate  and  more 
methodical  in  all  his  investigations.  The  world  at  large, 
therefore,  cannot  fail  to  he  benefited  by  his  labors;  and  the 
value  of  the  enjoyments  which  at  the  same  time  he  secures 
to  himself,  is  beyond  all  calculation. 

No  tedious,  vacant  hour  ever  makes  him  wish  for — he 
knows  not  what; — complain — he  knows  not  why.  Never 
does  a  restless  impatience  at  having  nothing  to  do,  compel 
him  to  seek  a  momentary  stimulus  to  his  dormant  powers  in 
the  tumultuous  pleasures  of  the  intoxicating  cup,  or  the  agi-. 
tating  suspense  of  the  game  of  chance.  Whether  he  be  at 
home  or  abroad,  in  every  different  clime,  and  in  every  sea- 
son of  the  year,  universal  nature  is  before  him,  and  invites 
him  to  a  banquet,  richly  replenished  with  whatever  can  invig- 
orate his  understanding,  or  gratify  his  mental  taste. 

The  earth  on  which  he  treads,  the  air  in  which  he  moves, 
the  sea  along  the  margin  of  which  he  walks, — all  teem  with 
objects  that  keep  his  attention  perpetually  awake — excite  him 
to  healthful  activity — and  charm  him  with  an  ever  varying 
succession  of  the  beautiful,  the  wonderful,  the  useful,  and  the 
new.  And  if,  in  conformity  with  the  direct  tendency  of  such 
occupations,  he  rises  from  the  creature  to  the  Creator,  and 
considers  the  duties  which  naturally  result  from  his  own  sit- 
uation and  rank  in  this  vast  system  of  being,  he  will  derive 
as  much  satisfaction  from  the  anticipation  of  the  future,  as 
from  the  experience  of  the  present,  and  the  recollection  of  the 
past. 

The  mind  of  the  pious  naturalist  is  always  cheerful — 
always  animated  with  the  noblest  and  most  benign  feelings. 
Every  repeated  observation — every  unexpected  discovery — 
directs  his  thought  to  the  great  Source  of  all  order,  and  all 
good  ;  and  harmonizes  all  his  faculties  with  the  general 
voice  of  nature 


Whom  nature's  works  can  charm,  \v 
Hold  converse—  grow  familiar,  day  by  day, 
With  his  conception*—  act  upon  his  plan, 
And  form  to  his  the  relish  of  llioir  souls." 


Thn  men 


INDUSTRY  NECESSARY  TO  GENIUS.  61 


Necessity  of ''Industry,  even  to  Genius. 

FROM  the  revival  of  learning  to  the  present  day,  every 
thing  that  labor  and  ingenuity  can  invent,  has  been  produced 
to  facilitate  the  acquisition  of  knowledge.  Bat,  notwithstand- 
ing all  the  Introductions,  the  Translations,  the  Annotations 
and  the  Interpretations,  I  must  assure  the  student,  that  indus- 
try, great  and  persevering  industry,  is  absolutely  necessary 
to  secure  any  very  valuble  and  distinguished  improvement. 
Superficial  qualifications  are  indeed  obtained,  at  an  easy 
price  of  time  and  labor ;  but  superficial  qualifications  confer 
neither  honor,  emolument,  nor  satisfaction. 

The  pupil  may  be  introduced,  by  the  judgment  and  the 
liberality  of  his  parents,  to  the  best  schools,  the  best  tutors, 
the  best  books  ;  and  his  parents  may  be  led  to  expect,  from 
such  advantages  alone,  extraordinary  advancement.  But 
these  things  are  all  extraneous.  The  mind  of  the  pupil 
must  be  accustomed  to  submit  to  labor,  sometimes  to  painful 
labor. 

The  poor  and  solitary  student,  who  has  never  enjoyed 
any  of  these  advantages  but  in  the  ordinary  manner,  will  by 
his  own  application  emerge  to  merit,  fame,  and  fortune ;  while 
the  indolent,  who  has  been  taught  to  lean  on  the  supports 
which  opulence  supplies,  will  sink  into  insignificance. 

I  repeat,  that  the  first  great  object  is,  to  induce  the  mind 
to  work  within  itself, — to  think  long  and  patiently  on  the 
same  subject,  and  to  compose  in  various  styles,  and  in  vari- 
ous meters.  It  must  be  led,  not  only  to  bear,  but  to  seek  oc- 
casional solitude.  If  it  is  early  habituated  to  all  these  exer- 
cises, it  will  find  its  chief  pleasure  in  them  ;  for  the  energies 
of  the  mind  affect  it  with  the  finest  feelings. 

But  is  industry,  such  industry  as  I  require,  necessary  to 
genius  ?  The  idea  that  it  is  not  necessary,  is  productive  of 
the  greatest  evils.  We  often  form  a  wrong  judgment  in  deter- 
mining who  is,  and  who  is  not  endowed  with  this  noble  priv- 
ilege. A  boy  who  apf>ear.s  lively  and  talkative,  is  often  suppo- 
sed by  his  parents  to  be  a  genius.  He  is  suffered  to  be  idle,  for 
he  is  a  genius ;  and  genius  is  only  injured  by  application. 

Now  it  usually  happens,  that  the  very  lively  and  talka- 
tive boy  is  the  most  deficient  in  genius.  His  forwardness 
arises  from  a  defect  of  those  fine  sensibilities  which,  at  the 
same  time,  occasion  diffidence,  and  constitute  genius.  He 


€2  RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  SOCIETY. 

ougnt  to  be  inured  to  literary  labor;  for,  without  it,  he  will 
be  prevented,  by  levity  and  stupidity,  from  receiving  any 
valuable  impressions. 

Parents  and  instructors  must  be  very  cautious  how  they 
dispense  with  diligence,  from  an  idea  that  the  pupil  possesses 
genius  sufficient  to  compensate  for  the  want  of  it.  All  men 
are  liable  to  mistake  in  decid  ing  on  genius  at  a  very  early  age ; 
but  parents  more  than  all,  from  their  natural  partiality. 

On  no  account,  therefore,  let  them  dispense  with  close 
application.  If  the  pupil  has  genius,  this  will  improve  and 
adorn  it;  if  he  has  not,  it  is  confessedly  requisite  to  supply 
the  defect.  Those  prodigies  of  genius  which  require  not 
instruction,  are  rare  phenomena :  we  read,  and  we  hear  of 
such ;  but  few  of  us  have  seen  and  known  such. 

What  is  genius  worth  without  knowledge? — But  is  a 
man  ever  born  with  knowledge  ?  It  is  true  that  one  man  is 
born  with  a  better  capacity  than  another,  for  the  reception 
and  retention  of  ideas;  but  still  the  mind  must  operate  in 
collecting,  arranging,  and  discriminating  those  ideas  which 
it  receives  with  facility.  And  I  believe  the  mind  of  a  genius 
is  often  very  laboriously  at  work,  when  to  the  common  ob- 
server it  appears  to  be  quite  inactive. 

I  most  anxiously  wish  that  a  due  attention  may  be  paid 
to  my  exhortations,  when  I  recommend  great  and  exemplary 
diligence.  All  that  is  excellent  in  learning  depends  upon  it. 
And  how  can  the  time  of  a  boy  or  a  young  man  be  better 
employed?  It  cannot  be  more  pleasantly;  for  I  am  sure, 
that  industry,  by  presenting  a  constant  succession  of  various 
objects,  and  by  precluding  the  listlessness  of  inaction,  ren- 
ders life  at  all  stages  of  it  agreeable,  and  particularly  so  in 
the  restless  season  of  youth. 

It  cannot  be  more  innocently ;  for  learning  has  a  con- 
nexion with  virtue :  and  he,  whose  time  is  fully  engaged, 
will  escape  many  vices  and  much  misery.  It  cannot  be  more 
usefully;  for  he  who  furnishes  his  mind  with  ideas,  and 
strengthens  his  faculties,  is  preparing  himself  to  become  a 
valuable  member  of  society,  whatever^ place  in  it  he  may  ob- 
tain ; — and  he  is  likely  to  obtain  an  exalted  place. — Knox. 


Religion  the  only  Basis   of  Society. 

RELIGION  is  a  social  concern ;  for  it  operates  powerfully 
on  society,  contributing,  in  various  ways,  to  its  stability  and 


RELIGION  THE  BASIS  OF  SOCIETY.  63 

prosperity.  Religion  is  not  merely  a  private  affair;  the  com- 
munity is  deeply  interested  in  its  diffusion;  for  it  is  the  best 
support  of  the  virtues  and  principles,  on  which  the  social 
order  rests.  Pure  and  undefiled  religion  is,  to  do  good  ;  and 
it  follows  very  plainly,  that  if  God  be  the  Author  and  Friend 
of  society,  then  the  recognition  of  him  must  enforce  all  so- 
cial duty,  and  enlightened  piety  must  give  its  whole  strength 
to  public  order. 

Few  men  suspect — perhaps  no  man  comprehends — the 
extent  of  the  support  given  by  religion  to  every  virtue.  No 
man  perhaps  is  aware,  how  much  our  moral  and  social  sen- 
timents are  fed  from  this  fountain, — how  powerless  conscience 
would  become,  without  the  belief  of  a  God, — how  palsied 
would  be  human  benevolence,  were  there  not  the  sense  of  a 
higher  benevolence  to  quicken  and  sustain  it, — how  suddenly 
the  whole  social  fabric  would  quake,  and  with  what  a  fearful 
crash  it  would  sink  into  hopeless  ruin, — were  the  ideas  of  a 
supreme  Being,  of  accountahleness,  ana1  of  a  future  life,  to  be 
utterly  erased  from  every  mind. 

And,  let  men  thoroughly  believe  that  they  are  the  work 
and  sport  of  chance, — that  no  superior  intelligence  concerns 
itself  with  human  affairs, — that  the  weak  have  no  guardian, 
and  the  injured  no  avenger, — that  there  is  no  recompense  for 
sacrifices  to  uprightness  and  the  public  good, — that  an  oath 
is  unheard  in  heaven, — that  secret  crimes  have  no  witness 
but  the  perpetrator,  — that  human  existence  has  no  purpose, 
and  human  virtue  no  unfailing  friend, — that  this  brief  life  is 
every  thing  to  us,  and  death  is  total,  everlasting  extinction, — 
once  let  them  thoroughly  abandon  religion, — and  who  can 
conceive  or  describe  the  extent  of  the  desolation  which  would 
fallow ! 

We  hope,  perhaps,  that  human  laws  and  natural  sym- 
pathy would  hold  society  together.  As  reasonably  might  we 
believe,  that  were  the  sun  quenched  in  the  heavens,  our  tor- 
ches would  illuminate,  and  our  fires  quicken  and  fertilize  the 
creation.  What  is  there  in  human  nature  to  awaken  respect 
and  tenderness,  if  man  is  the  unprotected  insect  of  a  day? — 
And  what  is  he  more  if  atheism  be  true? 

Erase  all  fear  and  thought  of  God  from  a  community, 
and  selfishness  and  sensuality  would  absorb  the  whole  man. 
Appetite,  knowing  no  restraint,  and  suffering,  having  no  so- 
lace or  hope,  would  trample  in  scorn  on  the  restraints  of  hu- 


C4  REASONABLENESS  OF  DEVOTION. 


man  laws.  Virtue,  duty,  principle,  would  be  mocked  anrt 
spurned  as  unmeaning  sounds.  A  sordid  self-interest  would 
supplant  every  other  feeling ;  and  man  would  become  in  fact, 
what  the  theory  of  atheism  declares  him  to  be, — a  compan- 
ion for  brutes.  Channing. 


On  the  reasonableness  of  Devotion. 

TRUE  devotion  is  rational,  and  well  founded.  It  takes 
its  rise  from  affections  which  are  essential  to  the  human  frame. 
We  are  formed  by  nature  to  admire  what  is  great,  and  to 
love  what  is  amiable.  Even  inanimate  objects  have  power 
to  excite  these  emotions.  The  magnificent  prospects  of  the 
natural  world,  fill  the  mind  with  reverential  awe.  Its  beau- 
tiful scenes  create  delight.  When  we  survey  the  actions  and 
behavior  of  our  fellow  creatures,  the  affections  glow  \vit4i 
greater  ardor;  and  if  to  be  unmoved  in  the  former  case,  ar- 
gues a  defect  of  sensibility  in  our  powers.it  discovers  in  the 
latter,  an  odious  hardness  and  depravity  in  the  heart. 

The  tenderness  of  an  aiFectionate  parent,  the  generosity 
of  a  forgiving  enemy,  the  public  spirit  of  a  patriot  or  a  hero, 
often  fill  the  eyes  with  tears,  and  swell  the  breast  with  emo- 
tions too  big  for  utterance.  The  object  of  these  affections  is 
frequently  raised  above  us  in  condition  and  rank.  Let  us 
suppose  him  raised  also  above  us  in  nature.  Let  us  imagine 
that  an  angel,  or  any  being  of  superior  order,  had  conde- 
scended to  be  our  friend,  our  guide,  and  patron  :  no  person, 
sure,  would  hold  the  exaltation  of  his  benefactors  character, 
to  be  an  argument  why  he  should  love  and  revere  him  less. 

Strange  !  that  the  attachment  and  veneration,  the  warmth 
and  overflowing  of  heart,  which  excellence  and  goodness  on 
every  other  occasion  command,  should  begin  to  be  account- 
ed irrational,  as  soon  as  the  Supreme  Being  becomes  their 
object.  For  what  reason  must  human  sensibility  be  extinct 
toward  him  alone?  Are  all  benefits  entitled  to  gratitude, 
except  the  highest  and  the  best?  Shall  goodness  cease  to  be 
amiable,  only  because  it  is  perfect? 

It  will  perhaps  be  said,  that  an  unknown  and  invisible 
being  is  not  qualified  to  raise  affection  in  the  human  heart. 
Wrapt  up  in  the  mysterious  obscurity  of  his  nature,  he  es- 
capes our  search,  and  affords  no  determinate  object  to  our 
love  or  desire.  We  go  forward,  but  he  is  not  there, — and 
backward,  but  we  cannot  perceive  him, — on  the  left  hand, 


REASONABLENESS  OF  DEVOTION. 


where  he  worketh,  but  we  cannot  behold  him :  he  hideth 
himself  on  the,  right  hand,  that  we  cannot  see  him. 

5.  Notwithstanding  this  obscurity,  is  there  any  being  in  the 
universe  more  real  and  certain,  than  the  Creator  of  the  world, 
and  the  Supporter  of  all  existence  ?     Is  he  in  whom  we  live 
and  move,  too  distant  from  us  to  excite  devotion  ?     His  form 
arid  essence,  indeed,  we  cannot  see  ;  but  to  be  unseen  and 
imperfectly  known  in  many  other  instances,  precludes   nei- 
ther gratitude  nor  love.     It  is  not  the  sight  so  much  as  the 
strong  conception,  or  deep  impression  of  an  object,  which 
affects  the  passions; 

6.  We  glow  with  admiration  of  personages  who  have  li- 
ved in  a  distant  age.     Whole  nations  have  been  transported 
with  zeal  and  affection  for  the  generous  hero,  or  public  de- 
liverer, whom    they  knew   only    by  fame.     Nay,  properly 
speaking,  the  direct  object  of  our  love  is  in  every  case  invi- 
sible ;  for  that  on  which  affection  is  placed  is  the  mind,  the 
soul,  the  internal  character  of  our  fellow  creatures, — which, 
surely,  is  no  less  concealed  than  the  Divine  Nature  itself  is 
from  the  view  of  sense. 

7.  From  actions,  we  can  only  infer  the  dispositions  of  men ; 
from  what  we  see  of  their  behavior,  we  collect  what  is  invi- 
sible; but  the  conjecture  which  we  form  is  at  best  imperfect ; 
and  when  their  actions  excite  our  love,  much  of  their  heart 
remains  still  unknown. 

S.  I  ask,  then,  in  what  respect  God  is  less  qualified  than 
any  other  being,  to  be  an  object  of  affection?  Convinced 
that  he  exists  ;  beholding  his  goodness  spread  abroad  in  his 
works — exerted  in  the  government  of  the  world— displayed 
in  some  measure  to  sense,  in  the  actions  of  his  Son  Jesus 
Christ, — are  we  not  furnished  with  every  essential  requisite' 
which  the  heart  demands,  in  order  to  indulge  the  most  warrrij 
and  at  the  same  time  the  most  rational  emotions. 

9.  If  these  considerations  justify  the  reasonableness  of  de- 
votion, as  expressed  in  veneration,  love,  and  gratitude,  the1 
same  train  of  thought  will  equally  justify  it  when  appearing 
in  the  forms  of  desire,  delight,  or  resignation.     The  latter 
are  indeed  the  consequence  of  the  former.     For  we  cannot 
but  desire  some  communication  with  what  we  love ;  and  will 
naturally  resign  ourselves  to  one,  on  whom  we  have  placed 
the  full  confidence  of  affection.     The  aspirations  of  a  devout 
man  after  the  favor  of  God,  are  the  effects  of  that  earnest 
wish  for  happiness  which  glows  in  every  breast. 

10.  All  men  have  somewhat  that  may  be  called  the  object 
of  their  devotion — reputation,  pleasure    learning,  riches,  e# 

6 


CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON. 


whatever  apparent  good  has  strongly  attached  their  heart. 
This  becomes  the  center  of  attraction,  which  draws  them  to- 
wards it, — which  quickens  and  regulates  all  their  motions. 
While  the  men  of  the  world  are  thus  influenced  by  the  ob- 
jects which  they  severally  worship,  shall  he  only,  who  directs 
all  his  devotion  toward  the  Supreme  Being:,  be  excluded  from 
a  place  in  the  system  of  rational  conduct  ?  Blair. 


DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 


Character  of  Washington; 

IT  \6  natural  that  the  gratitude  of  mankind  should  fce 
drawn  to  their  benefactors.  A  number  of  these  have  succes- 
sively arisen,  who  were  no  less  distinguished  for  the  eleva- 
tion of  their  virtues,  than  the  luster  of  their  talents.  Of  those, 
however,  who  were  born,  and  who  acted  through  life  as  if 
they  were  born,  not  for  themselves,  but  for  their  country,  and 
the  whole  human  race,  how  few,  alas  !  are  recorded  on  the 
long  annala  of  ages,  and  how  wide  the  intervals  of  time  and 
space  that  divide  them. 

In  all  this  dreary  length  of  way,  they  appear  like  five 
or  six  light-houses  on  as  many  thousand  miles  of  coast:  they 
gleam  upon  the  surrounding  darkness  with  an  inextinguish- 
able splendor — 'like  stars  seen  through  a  mist;  but  they  are 
seen  like  stars,  to  cheer,  to  guide,  and  to  save.  WASHINGTON 
is  now  added  to  that  small  number.  Already  he  attracts  cu- 
riosity like  a  newly  discovered  star,  whose  benign  light 
will  travel  on  to  the  world's  and  time's  farthest  bounds.  Al- 
ready his  name  is  hung  up  by  history,  as  conspicuously  as  it 
it  sparkled  in  one  of  the  constellations  of  the  sky. 

The  best  evidence  of  reputation  is  a  man's  whole  life. 
We  have  now,  alas !  all  WASHINGTON'S  before  us.  There  has 
scarcely  appeared  a  really  great  man,  whose  character  has 
been  more  admired  in  his  life  time,  or  less  correctly  under- 
stood by  his  admirers.  When  it  is  comprehended,  it  is  no 
easy  task  to  delineate  its  excellencies  in  such  a  manner,  as 
to  give  to  the  portrait  both  interest  and  resemblance  :  for  it 
requires  thought  and  study  to  understand  the  true  ground  dl 


CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON.  6t 


the  superiority  of  his  character,  over  many  others  whom  h«f 
resembled  in  the  principles  of  action,  and  even  in  the  man- 
ner of  acting. 

But  perhaps  he  excels  all  the  great  men  that  ever  lived, 
in  the  steadiness  of  his  adherence  to  his  maxims  of  life,  and 
in  the  uniformity  of  all  his  conduct  to  the  same  maxims. 
These  maxims,  though  wise,  were  yet  not  so  remarkable  for 
their  wisdom,  as  for  their  authority  over  his  life;  for  if  there 
were  any  errors  in  his  judgment,  we  know  of  no  blemishes 
in  his  virtue.  He  was  the  patriot  without  reproach  :  he  loved 
his  country  well  enough  to  hold  his  success  in  serving  it  an 
ample  recompense. 

Thus  far,  self-love  and  love  of  country  coincided:  but 
when  his  country  needed  sacrifices  that  no  other  man  could, 
or  perhaps  would  be  willing  to  make,  he  did  not  even  hesi- 
tate. This  was  virtue  in  its  most  exalted  character.  More 
than  once  he  put  his  fame  at  hazard,  when  he  had  reason  to 
think  it  would  be  sacrificed,  at  least  in  this  age. 

It  is  indeed  almost  as  difficult  to  draw  his  character,  as 
the  portrait  of  virtue.  The  reasons  are  similar  :  our  ideas  of 
moral  excellence  are  obscure,  because  they  are  complex,  and 
we  are  obliged  to  resort  to  illustrations.  WASHINGTON'S  ex- 
ample is  the  happiest  to  show  what  virtue  is  ;  and  to  deline- 
ate his  character,  we  naturally  expatiate  on  the  beauty  of 
virtue  : — much  must  be  felt,  and  much  nnagined.  His  pre- 
eminence is  not  so  much  to  be  seen  in  the  display  of  any  one 
virtue  as  in  the  possession  of  them  all,  aud  in  the  practice  of 
the  most  difficult.  Hereafter,  therefoie,  his  character  must 
be  studied  before  it  will  be  striking  5  and  then  it  will  be  ad- 
mitted as  a  model — a  precious  one  to  a  free  republic ! 

It  is  no  less  difficult  to  speak  of  his  talents.  They  were 
adapted  to  lead,  without  dazzling  mankind  5  and  to  draw 
forth  and  employ  the  talents  of  others,  without  being  misled 
by  them.  In  this  he  was  certainly  superior,  that  he  neither 
mistook  nor  misapplied  his  own. — His  great  modesty  and 
reserve  would  have  concealed  them,  if  great  occasions  had 
not  called  them  forth  ;  and  4hen,  as  he  never  spoke  from  the 
affectation  to  shine,  nor  acted  from  any  sinister  motives,  it  is 
from  their  effects  only  that  we  are  to  judge  of  their  greatness 
and  extent. 

In  public  trusts,  where  men  acting  conspicuously  are 
cautious,  and  in  those  private  concerns  where  few  conceal  or 
resist  their  weaknesses,  WASHINGTON  was  uniformly  great, 
pursuing  right  conduct  from  right  maxims.  His  talents  wer« 
such  as  assist  sound  judgment,  and  ripen  with  it. 


68  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON. 

His  prudence  was  consummate,  and  seemed  to  take 
the  direction  of  his  powers  and  passions;  for,  as  a  soldier, 
he  was  more  solicitous  to  avoid  mistakes  that  would  be  fatal, 
than  to  perform  exploits  that  were  brilliant ;  and,  as  a  states- 
man, to  adhere  to  just  principles,  however  did,  than  to  pursue' 
novelties;  and  therefore  in  both  characters  his  qualities  were 
singularly  adapted  to  the  interest,  and  were  tried  in  the 
greatest  perils  of  the  country.  His  habits  of  inquiry  were 
so  far  remarkable,  that  he  was  never  satisfied  with  investi- 
gating, nor  desisted  from  it,  so  long  as  he  had  less  than  all 
the  light  that  he  could  obtain  upon  a  subject;  and  then  he 
made  his  decision  without  bias. 

This  command  over  the  partialities  that  so  generally 
stop  men  short,  or  turn  them  aside  in  their  pursuit  of  truth, 
is  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  his  unvaried  course  of  right 
conduct  in  so  many  difficult  scenes,  where  every  human 
actor  must  be  presumed  to  err.  If  he  had  strong  passions, 
he  had  learned  to  subdue  them,  and  to  be  moderate  and  mild. 
If  he  had  weaknesses,  he  concealed  them, — which  is  rare, — 
and  excluded  them  from  the  government  of  his  temper  and 
conduct, — which  is  still  more  rare. 

If  he  loved  fame  he  never  made  improper  compliances 
for  what  is  called  popularity.  The  fame  he  enjoyed  is  of  the 
kind  that  will  last  for  ever ;  yet  it  was  rather  the  effect,  than 
the  motive  of  his  conduct. — Some  future  Plutarch  will 
search  for  a  parallel  to  his  character.  Epaminondas  is  per- 
haps the  brightest  name  of  all  antiquity.  Our  WASHINGTON 
resembled  him  in  the  purity  and  ardor  of  his  patriotism; 
and,  like  him,  he  first  exalted  the  glory  of  his  country. 

There,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  the  parallel  ends :  for  Thebes 
fell  with  Epaminondas.  But  such  comparisons  cannot  be 
pursued  far,  without  departing  from  the  similitude.  For  we 
shall  find  it  as  difficult  to  compare  great  men  as  great  rivers : 
some  we  admire  for  the  length  and  rapidity  of  their  current, 
and  the  grandeur  of  their  cataracts;  others  for  the  majestic 
silence  and  fullness  of  their  streams:  we  cannot  bring  them 
together  to  measure  the  difference  of  their  waters. 

The  unambitious  life  of  WASHINGTON,  declining  fame, 
yet  courted  by  it,  seemed,  like  the  Ohio,  to  choose  its  long 
1  way  through  solitudes,  diffusing  fertility ;  or  like  his  own 
Potomac,  widening  and  deepening  his  channel  as  he  ap- 
proaches the  sea,  and  displaying  most  the  usefulness  and 
serenity  of  his  greatness  toward  the  end  of  his  course.  Such 


GRAVE  OF  JEFFERSON.  69 

a  citizen  would  do  honor  to  any  country,  and  the  constant 
Veneration  and  affection  of  his  country,  will  show  that  it 
was  worthy  of  such  a  citizen.  Ames. 


The  Grave  of  Jefferson* 

I  ASCENDED  the  winding  road  which  leads  from  Chat- 
lottsville  to  Monticello,  up  the  miniature  mountain  to  the' 
farm  and  the  grave  of  Jefferson.  On  entering  the  gate 
which  opens  into  the  enclosure,  numerous  paths  diverge 
in  various  directions,  winding  through  beautiful  groves  to 
the  summit  of  the  hill.  From  the  peak  or\  which  the  house 
stands,  a  grand  and  nearly  unlimited  view  opens  to  the 
thickly  wooded  hills  and  fertile  valleys  which  stretch  out  on 
either  side.  The  University  with  its  dome,  porticos,  and 
colonnade,  looks  like  a  fair  city  in  the  plain :  Charlottsville 
seems  to  be  directly  beneath. 

No  spot  can  be  imagined  as  combining  greater  advan- 
tages of  grandeur,  healthfulness,  and  seclusion. — The  house 
is  noble  in  its  appearance :  two  large  columns  support  a  por- 
tico, which  extends  from  the  wings,  and  into  it  the  front  door 
opens.  The  apartments  are  neatly  furnished,  and  embellish- 
ed with  statues,  busts,  portraits,  and  natural  curiosities.  The 
grounds  and  outhouses  have  been  neglected;  Mr.  Jefferson's  at- 
tention having  been  absorbed  from  such  personal  concerns,  by 
the  cares  attendant  on  the  superintendence  of  the  University. 

At  a  short  distance  behind  the  mansion,  in  a  quiet, 
shaded  spot,  the  visitor  sees  a  square  enclosure,  surrounded 
by  a  low,  unmortared  stone  wall,  which  he  enters  by  a  neat 
wooden  gate.  This  is  the  family  burial  ground,  containing 
ten  or  fifteen  graves,  none  of  them  marked  by  epitaphs,  and 
only  a  few  distinguished  by  any  memorial.  On  one  side  of 
this  simple  cemetery,0  is  the  resting  place  of  the  patriot  and 
philosopher.  When  I  saw  it,  the  vault  had  just  been  arched, 
and  in  readiness  for  the  plain  stone  which  was  to  cover  it. 

May  it  ever  continue,  like  Washington's,  without  any 
adventitious  attractions  or  conspicuoushess ;  for  when  we 
or  our  posterity  need  any  other  memento  of  our  debt  of 
honor  to  those  names,  than  their  simple  inscription  on  paper, 
gorgeousf  tombs  would  be  a  mockery  to  their  memories. 
When  gratitude  shall  cease  to  concentrate  their  remembrance 
in  the  hearts  of  our  citizens,  no  cenotaph  will  inspire  the 
reverence  we  owe  to  them. 


70  HERCULANEUM. 


The  last  days  of  Herculaneum. 

A  GREAT  city,  situated  amidst  all  that  nature  coulo 
create  of  beauty  and  profusion,  or  art  collect  of  science  ana 
magnificence, — the  growth  of  many  ages, — the  residence  of 
enlightened  multitudes, — the  scene  of  splendor,  and  festivity, 
and  happiness, — in  one  moment  withered  as  by  a  spell,  — 
its  palaces,  its  streets,  its  temples,  its  gardens,  "'glowing 
with  eternal  spring,"  and  its  inhabitants  in  the  full  enjoy- 
ment of  all  life's  blessings,  obliterated  from  their  very  place 
in  creation, — not  by  war,  or  famine,  or  disease,  or  any  of  the 
natural  causes  of  destruction  to  which  earth  had  been  accus- 
tomed,— but  in  a  single  night,  as  if  by  magic,d  and  amid  the 
conflagration,  as  it  were,  of  nature  itself, — presented  a  subject 
on  which  the  wildest  imagination  might  grow  weary,  without 
even  equaling  the  grand  and  terrible  reality. 

The  eruption  of  Vesuvius,  by  which  Herculaneum 
and  Pompeii  were  overwhelmed,  has  been  chiefly  described 
to  us  in  the  letters  of  Pliny  the  younger  to  Tacitus,  giving 
an  account  of  his  uncle's  fate,  and  the  situation  of  the  writer 
and  his  mother.  The  elder  Pliny  had  just  returned  from, 
the  bath,  and  was  retired  to  his  study,  when  a  small  speck 
or  cloud,  which  seemed  to  ascend  from  Mount  Vesuvius, 
attracted  his  attention. 

This  cloud  gradually  increased,  and  at  length  assumed 
the  shape  of  a  pine  tree,  the  trunk  of  earth  and  vapor,  and 
the  leaves,  "red  cinders."  Pliny  ordered  his  galley,  and, 
urged  by  his  philosophic  spirit,  went  forward  to  inspect  the 
phenomenon.  In  a  short  time,  however,  philosophy  gave 
way  to  humanity,  and  he  zealously  and  adventurously  em- 
ployed his  galley,  in  saving  the  inhabitants  of  the  various 
beautiful  villas  which  studded  that  enchanting  coast. 
Among  others  he  went  to  the  assistance  of  his  friend 
Pomponianus,  who  was  then  at  Strabiae. 

The  storm  of  fire,  and  the  tempest  of  earth,  increased; 
and  the  wretched  inhabitants  were  obliged,  by  the  continual 
rocking  of  their  houses,  to  rush  out  into  the  fields  with  pil- 
lows tied  down  by  napkins  Upon,  their  heads,  as  their  sole 
defense  against  the  shower  of  stones  which  fell  on  them. 
This,  in  the  course  of  nature,  was  in  the  middle  of  the  day ; 
but  a  deeper  darkness  than  that  of  a  winter  night  had  closed 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  71 

around  the  ill-fated  inmates  of  Herculaneum.  This  artificial 
darkness  continued  for  three  days  and  nights,  and  when,  at 
length,  the  sun  again  appeared  over  the  spot  where  Hercula- 
neurn  stood,  his  rays  fell  upon  an  ocean  of  lava ! 

There  was  neither  tree,  nor  shrub,  nor  field,  nor  house, 
nor  living  creature;  nor  Visible  remnant  of  what  human 
hands  had  reared, — there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  one 
black  extended  surface,  still  streaming  with  mephitic  vapor, 
and  heaved  into  calcined  Waves  by  the  operation  of  fire,  and 
the  undulations  of  the  earthquake!  Pliny  was  found  dead 
Upon  the  sea-shore,  stretched  Upon  a  cloth  which  had  been 
spread  for  him,  where  it  was  conjectured  he  had  perished 
early,  his  corpulent  and  apoplectic  habit  rendering  him  a"n 
easy  prey  to  the  suffocating  atmosphere, 


Passage  of  the  Potomac  and  Shenandoah  Rivers  through, 
the  Blue  Ridge. 

1.  THE  passage  of  the  Potoriiac  through  the  Blue  Ridge, 
is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  stupendous  scenes  in  nature. 
You  stand  on  a  very  high  point  of  land.  On  your  right 
c'omes  up  the  Shenandoah,  having  ranged  along  the  foot  of 
the  mountain  a  hundred  miles  to  seek  a  vent.  On  your  left 
approaches  the  Potomac,  in  qtlest  of  a  passage  also.  In  the 
moment  of  their  junction  they  rush  together  against  the 
mountain,  rend  it  asunder,  and  pass  off  to  the  sea. 

The  first  glance  of  this  scene  hurries  our  senses  into 
the  opinion,  that  this  earth  has  been  created  in  time  ;  that  the 
mountains  were  formed  first;  that  the  rivers  began  to  flow- 
afterwards  ;  that,  in  this  place  particularly,  they  have  been 
dammed  up  by  the  Blue  Ridge  of  mountains,  and  have  form- 
ed an  ocean  which  filled  the  whole  valley;  that,  continuing 
to  rise,  they  have  at  length  broken  over  at  this  spot,  and 
have  torn  the  mountain  down  from  its  summit  to  its  base. 
The  piles  of  rock  on  each  hand,  particularly  the  Shenan- 
doah, — the  evident  marks  of  their  disrupture  and  avulsion 
from  their  beds,  by  the  most  powerful  agents  of  nature,  cor- 
roberate  this  impression. 

Buf  the  distant  finishing  which  nature  has  given  to  the' 
picture,  is  of  a  very  different  character.  It  is  a  true  con- 
trast to  the  foreground.  That  is  as  placid  and  delightful, 
as  this  is  wild  and  tremendous.  The  mountain  being  cloven 
asunder,  presents  to  your  eye,  through  the  cleft,  a  small  catch 


72  EGYPTIAN  PYRAMIDS. 

of  smooth  blue  horizon,  at  an  infinite  distance  in  the  plain 
country,  inviting  you  as  it  were  from  the  riot  and  tumult 
roaring  round,  to  pass  through  the- breach,  and  participate  of 
the  calm  below. 

Here  the  eye  ultimately  composes  itself;  and  that  way, 
too,  the  road  happens  actually  to  lead.  You  cross  the  Po- 
tomac above  the  junction,  pass  along  its  side  through  the 
base  of  the  mountain  for  three  miles, — its  terrible  precipices 
hanging  in  fragments  over  you.  This  scene  is  worth  a 
voyage  across  the  Atlantic ;  yet  here,  as  in  the  neighborhood6 
of  the  Natural  Bridge,  are  people  who  have  passed  their  lives 
within  half  a  dozen  miles,  and  have  never  been  to  survey 
these  monuments  of  a  war  between  rivers  and  mountains, 
which  must  have  shaken  the  earth  itself  to  its  center. 

Jefferson. 


The  Egyptian  Pyramids. 

THE  pyramids  of  Egypt  are  well  entitled  to  a  place, 
among  the  most  interesting  curiosities  in  the  world.  The 
principal  ones  stand  opposite  Cairo,  on  the  west  side  of  the 
river  Nile.  They  are  built  of  stones,  which  overleap  each 
other,  and  thus  form  steps  from  the  bottom  to  the  top.  The 
perpendicular  height  of  the  largest  is  about  500  feet,  and 
the  area  of  its  basis  contains  nearly  500,000  square  feet,  or 
something  more  than  eleven  English  acres  of  ground. 
Some  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  cost  and  labor  in  the  struc- 
ture of  this  pyramid,  from  the  fact  that  thirty  years  were 
spent  in  building  it,  and  that  100,000  men  were  constantly 
employed  on  the  work. 

Such  were  the  famous  Egyptian  pyramids,  which  by 
their  figure  as  w.ell  as  size  have  triumphed  over  the  injuries 
of  tiriie  and  the  barbarians.  But  whatever  efforts  men  make, 
their  own  nothingness  will  always  appear.  These  pyramids 
were  tombs ;  and  there  is  still  to  be  seen,  in  the  middle  of  the 
largest,  an  empty  sepulcher,  cut  out  of  entire  stone,  about 
three  feet  deep  and  broad,  and  a  little  above  six  feet  long. 

Thus,  all  this  bustle,  all  this  expense,  and  all  the  labor 
of  so  many  thousand  men,  ended  in  procuring  a  prince,  in 
this  vast  and  almost  boundless  pile  of  buildings,  a  little 
vault  six  feet  in  length.  Besides,  the  kings  who  built  these 
pyramids  had  it  not  in  their  power  to  be  buried  in  them,  and 


EGYPTIAN  PYRAMIDS. 


so  did  not  enjoy  the  sepulcher  they  had  huilt.  The  public 
hatred  which  they  incurred  hy  reason  of  their  unheard  ot 
cruelties  to  their  subjects,  in  laying  such  heavy  tasks  upon 
them,  occasioned  their  being  interred  in  some  obscure  place, 
to  prevent  their  bodies  from  being  exposed  to  the  fury  and 
vengeance  of  the  populace. 

This  last  circumstance,  of  which  historians  have  taken 
particular  notice,  teaches  us  what  judgment  we  ought  to  pass 
on  these  edifices,  so  much  boasted  of  by  the  ancients.  It  is 
but  jfist  to  remark  and  esteem  the  noble  genius  which  the 
Egyptians  had  for  architecture,  — a  genius  that  prompted 
them  from  the  earliest  times,  and  before  they  could  have  any 
models  to  imitate,  to  aim  in  all  things  at  the  grand  and  mag- 
nificent; and  to  be  intent  on  real  beauties,  without  deviating 
in  the  least  from  a  noble  simplicity,  in  which  the  highest 
perfection  of  the  art  consists. 

But  what  idea  ought  we  to  form  of  those  princes,  who 
considered  as  something  grand,  the  raising,  hy  a  multitude  of 
hands  arid  by  the  help  of  money,  immense  structures,  wUh 
the  sole  view  of  rendering  their  names  immortal;  and  who 
did  not  scruple  to  destroy  thousands  of  their  subjects  to  satis- 
fy their  vain  glory  !  They  differed  very  much  from  the  Ro- 
mans, who  sought  to  immortalize  themselves  by  works  of  a 
magnificent  kind,  but  at  the  same  time  of  public  utility. 

Pliny  gives  us,  in  a  few  words,  a  just  idea  of  these  py- 
ramids when  he  calls  them  a  foolish  and  useless  ostentation 
of  the  wealth  of  Egyptian  kings;  and  adds,  that  by  a  just 
punishment  their  memory  is  buried  in  oblivion — historians 
not  agreeing  among  themselves  about  the  names  of  those 
who  first  raised  those  vain  monuments.  In  a  word,  accord- 
ing to  the  judicious  remark  of  Diodorus,  the  industry  of  the 
architects  of  those  pyramids  is  no  less  valuable  and  praise-* 
worthy,  than  the  design  of  the  Egyptian  kings  contemptible 
and  ridiculous. 

But  what  we  should  most  admire  m  these  ancient  mo- 
numents, is,  the  true  and  standing  evidence  they  give  of  the 
skill  of  the  Egyptians  in  Astronomy  ;  that  is  a  science  which 
seems  incapable  of  being  brought  to  perfection  but  by  a  long 
series'  of  years,  and  a  great  number  of  observations.  It  has 
been  found,  that  the  four  sides  of  the  great  pyramid  named, 
were  turned  exactly  to  the  four  quarters  of  the  world;  and 
consequently  showed  the  true  meridian  of  that  place. 

As  so  exact  a  situation  was  in  all  probability  purposely 


74  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  AT  ROMK. 

pitched  upon,  by  those  who  piled  up  this  huge  mass  of  stones 
above  three  thousand  years  ago ;  it  follows,  that  during  so 
long  a  space  of  time  there  has  been  no  alteration  in  the  hea- 
vens in  that  respect,  or,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  in 
the  poles  of  the  earth  or  the  meridians. 


Of  the  Forum,  and  other  public  Buildings  at  Rome. 

THE  Roman  Forum  now  lay  extended  before  us — a  scene 
m  the  ages  of  Roman  greatness  of  unparalleled  splendor  ana 
magnificence.  It  was  bordered  on  both  sides  with  temples, 
and  lined  with  statues.  It  terminated  in  triumphal  arches ; 
and  was  bounded,  here  by  the  Palatine  hill,  with  the  imperi- 
al residence  glittering  on  its  summit,  and  there  by  the  Ca- 
pitol, with  its  ascending  ranges  of  porticos  and  of  temples. 

Thus  it  presented  one  of  the  richest  exhibitions  that 
^yes  could  behold,  or  human  ingenuity  invent.  In  the  midst 
of  these  superb  monuments, — the  memorial  of  their  great- 
ness, and  tl^  trophies  of  their  fathers, — the  Roman  people 
assembled  to  exercise  tteir  sovereign  power,  and  to  decide 
the  fates  of  heroes,  of  kings,  and  of  nations. 

Nor  did  the  contemplation  of  such  glorious  objects  fail 
to  produce  a  corresponding  effect.  Manlius,  as  long  as  he 
could  extend  his  arm  and  fix  the  attention  of  the  people  on 
the  Capitol  which  he  had  saved,  suspended  his  fatal  sentence. 
Caius  Gracchus  melted  the  hearts  of  his  audience,  when  in 
the  moment  of  distress  he  pointed  to  the  Capitol,  and  asked 
with  all  the  emphasis  of  despair,  whether  he  could  expect  to 
find  an  asylum  in  that  sanctuary,  whose  pavements  still 
streamed  with  the  blood  of  his  brother. 

Scipio  Africanus,  when  accused  by  an  envious  faction, 
and  obliged  to  appear  before  the  people  as  a  criminal,  instead 
of  answering  the  charge,  turned  to  the  Capitol,  and  invited 
the  assembly  to  accompany  him  to  the  temple  of  Jupiter, 
and  to  give  thanks  to  the  Gods  for  the  defeat  oi'  Annibal  and 
the  Carthaginians. 

Such,  in  fact,  was  the  influence  of  locality,  and  such  the 
awe,  interest,  and  even  emotion,  inspired  by  the  surrounding 
edifices.  Hence  the  frequent  references  that  we  find  in  the 
Roman  historians  and  orators,  of  the  Capitol,  the  Forum,  the 
temples  of  the  gods  ;  and  hence  those  noble  addresses  to  the 
deities  themselvesj  as  appear  in  their  respective  sanctuaries. 


PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  AT  ROME.  75 


But  the  glories  of  the  Forum  are  now  fled  for  ever;  its 
temples  are  fallen 5  its  sanctuaries  have  crumbled  into  dust; 
its  colonnades  encumber  its  pavements,  now  buried  under 
their  remains.  The  walls  of  the  Rostra,  stripped  of  their 
ornaments,  and  doomed  to  eternal  silence, — a  few  shattered 
porticos,  and  here  and  there  an  insulated  column,  standing 
in  the  midst  of  broken  shafts, — vast  fragments  of  marble 
capitals  and  cornices,  heaped  together  in  masses, — remind 
the  traveler  that  the  field  which  he  now  traverses  was  once 
the  Roman  Forum. 

A  little  farther  on  commences  a  double  range  of  trees 
that  leads  along  the  Via  Sacra,  by  the  temples  of  Antoninus 
and  of  Peace,  to  the  arch  of  Titus.  A  herdsman,  seated  on 
a  pedestal  while  his  oxen  were  drinking  at  the  fountain,  and 
a  few  passengers,  moving  at  a  distance  in  different  directions, 
were  the  only  living  beings  that  disturbed  the  silence  and 
solitude  which  reigned  around. 

Thus,  the  place  seemed  restored  to  its  original  wild- 
ness  described  by  Virgil,  and  abandoned  once  more  to  the 
flocks  and  herds  of  cattle.  So  far  have  the  modern  Romans 
forgotten  the  theater  of  the  glory,  and  of  the  imperial  power 
of  their  ancestors,  as  to  degrade  it  into  a  common  market 
for  cattle  ;  and  sink  its  name,  illustrated  by  every  page  of 
Roman  history,  into  the  contemptible  appellation  of  Campo 
Vaccino. 

Proceeding  along  the  Via  Sacra,  and  passing  under  the 
arch  of  Titus,  on  turning  a  little  to  the  left  we  beheld  tbe 
amphitheater  of  Vespasian  and  Titus,  now  called  the  Coli- 
seum. Never  did  human  art  present  to  the  eye  a  fabric,  so 
well  calculated,  by  its  size  and  form,  to  surprise  and  delight. 
Let  the  spectator  first  place  himself  to  the  north,  and  con- 
template that  side  which  depredation,  barbarism,  and  ages 
have  spared,  he  will  behold  with  admiration  its  wonderful 
extent,  well  proportioned  stones,  and  flying  lines,  that  retire 
and  vanish  without  break  or  interruption. 

Next  let  him  turn  to  the  south,  and  examine  those  stu- 
pendous arches,  which,  stripped  as  they  are  of  their  external 
decorations,  still  astonish  us  by  their  solidity  and  duration. 
Then  let  him  enter,  range  through  the  lofty  arcades,  and, 
ascending  the  vaulted  seats,  consider  the  vast  mass  of  ruin 
that  surrounds  him— insulated  walls,  immense  stones  sus- 
pended in  the  air,  arches  covered  with  weeds  and  shrubs, 


76  PUBLIC  BUILDINGS  AT  ROME. 

vaults  opening  upon  other  ruins;  in  short,  above,  below,  and 
around,  one  vast  collection  of  magnificence  and  devastation, 
of  grandeur  and  decay. 

The  Coliseum,  owing  to  the  solidity  of  its  materials, 
survived  the  era  of  barbarism,  and  was  so  perfect  in  the 
thirteenth  century  that  games  were  exhibited  in  it,  not  for 
the  amusement  of  the  Roman  only,  but  of  all  the  nobility  of 
Italy.  The  destruction  of  this  wonderful  fabric  is  to  be  as- 
cribed to  causes  more  active  in  general  in  the  erection,  than 
in  the  demolition  of  magnificent  buildings — to  Taste  and 
Vanity. 

When  Rome  began  to  revive,  and  architecture  arose 
from  its  ruins,  every  rich  and  powerful  citizen  wished  to  have, 
not  a  commodious  dwelling  merely,  but  a  palace.  The  Coli- 
seum, was  an  immense  quarry  at  hand  :  the  common  people 
stole,  the  grandees  obtained  permission  to  carry  off,  its  ma- 
terials, till  the  interior  was  dismantled,  and  the  exterior  half 
stripped  of  its  ornaments. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say  where  this  system  of  depredation, 
so  sacrilegious  in  the  opinion  of  the  antiquary,  would  have 
stopped,  had  not  Benedict  XIV.,  a  pontif  of  great  judgment, 
erected  a  cross  in  the  center  of  the  arena,  and  declared  the 
place  sacred,  out  of  respect  to  the  blood  of  the  many  mar- 
tyrs who  were  butchered  there  during  the  persecutions. — 
This  declaration,  if  issued  two  or  three  centuries  ago,  would 
have  preserved  the  Coliseum  entire ;  it  can  now  only  pro- 
tect its  remains,  and  transmit  them  in  their  present  state  to 
posterity. 

We  then  ascended  the  Palatine  Mount,  after  having 
walked  around  its  base  in  order  to  examine  its  bearings. — 
This  hill,  the  nursery  of  infant  Rome,  and  finally  the  resi- 
dence of  imperial  grandeur,  presents  now  two  solitary  villas 
and  a  convent,  with  their  deserted  gardens  and  vineyards. 

Its  numerous  temples,  its  palaces,  its  porticos,  and  its 
libraries, — once  the  glory  of  Rome,  and  the  admiration  of  the 
universe, — are  now  mere  heaps  of  ruins,  so  shapeless  and 
scattered,  that  the  antiquary  and  architect  are  at  a  loss  to  dis- 
cover their  site,  their  plans  and  their  elevation.  Of  that  wing 
of  the  imperial  palace  which  looks  to  the  west,  and  on  the 
Circus  Maximus,  some  apartments  remain  vaulted,  and  of 
fine  proportions,  but  so  deeply  buried  in  ruins  as  to  be  now 
subterranean. 

A  hall  of  immense  size  was  discovered  about  the  be- 


DESCRIPTION  OF  .ETNA. 


ginning  ot  the  last  century,  concealed  under  the  ruins  of  its 
own  massive  roof.  The  pillars  of  Verde  antico  that  support- 
ed its  vaults,  the  statues  that  ornamented  its  niches,  and 
the  rich  marbles  that  formed  its  pavement,  were  found  buried 
in  rubbish,  and  were  immediately  carried  away  by  the  Far- 
nes-ian  family,  the  proprietors  of  the  soil,  to  adorn  their  pa- 
laces, and  furnish  their  galleries. 

This  hall  is  now  cleared  of  its  encumbrances,  and  pre- 
sents to  the  eye  a  vast  length  of  naked  wall,  and  an  area 
covered  with  weeds.  As  we  stood  contemplating  its  extent 
and  proportions,  a  fox  started  from  an  aperture  at  one  end, 
once  a  window,  and,  crossing  the  open  space,  scrambled  up 
the  ruins  at  the  other,  and  disappeared  in  the  rubbish. 

This  scene  of  desolation  reminded  me  of  Ossian's 
beautiful  description  :  k<  the  thistle  shook  there  its  lonely 
head;  the  moss  whistled  lo  the  gale;  the  fox  looked  out 
from  the  windows  ;  the  rank  grass  waved  around  his  head," — 
and  almost  seemed  tte  accomplishment  .of  that  awful  predic- 
tion— "  There  the  wild  beasts  of  the  desert  shall  lodge,  and 
howling  monsters  shall  fill  the  houses  ;  the  wolves  shall 
howl  to  one  another  in  their  palaces,  and  dragons  in  their 
voluptuous  pavilions."  Eustace. 


Description  of  Etna. 

AT  day  break  we  set  off  from  Catania,  to  visit  Mount 
that  venerable  and  respectable  father  of  mountains* 
His  base,  and  his  immense  declivities,  are  covered  with  a 
numerous  progeny  of  his  own  ;  for  every  great  eruption  pro- 
duces a  new  mountain ;  and,  perhaps  by  the  number  of  these 
better  than  by  any  oiher  method,  the  number  of  eruptions, 
and  the  age  of  ./Etna  itself  might  be  ascertained. 

The  whole  mountain  is  divided  into  three  distinct  re- 
gions, called  La  Regione  Cultra  or  Piedmontese,  the  fertile 
region;  La  Regione  Sylvosa,  or  Nemorosa,  the  woody  re- 
gion ;  and  La  Regione  Deserta  or  Scoperta,  the  barren  re- 
gion. These  three  are  as  different,  both  in  climate  and  pro- 
ductions, as  the  three  zones  of  the  earth ;  and  perhaps  with 
equal  propriety  might  have  been  styled  the  Torrid,  the  Tem- 
perate, and  the  Frigid  Zone. 

The  first  region  surrounds  the  mountain,  and  consti- 
tutes the  most  fertile  country  in  the  world,  on  all  sides  of  ity 


78  DESCRIPTION  OF  JETNA. 

to  the  extent  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  miles,  where  the  woody 
region  begins.  It  is  composed  almost  entirely  of  lava,  which, 
after  a  number  of  ages,  is  at  last  converted  into  the  most 
fertile  of  all  soils.  At  Nicolosi,  which  is  twelve  miles  up 
the  mountain,  we  found  the  barometer  at  27  1-2: — at  Cata- 
nia it  stood  at  29  1-2. 

After  leaving  Nicolosi,  in  an  hour  and  a  halPs  traveling 
over  barren  ashes  and  lava,  we  arrived  on  the  confines  of  the 
Resione  Sylvosa,  or  temperate  zone.  As  soon  as  we  enter- 
ed these  delightful  forests,  we  seemed  to  have  entered  another 
world.  The  air.  which  before  was  sultry  and  hot,  was  now 
cool  and  refreshing;  and  every  breeze  was  loaded  with  a 
thousand  perfumes — the  whole  ground  being  covered  with 
the  richest  aromatic  plants.  Many  parts  of  this  region  are 
surely  the  most  delightful  spots  upon  earth. 

This  mountain  unites  every  beauty,  and  every  horror;  and 
the  most  opposite  and  dissimilar  objects  in  nature.  Here  you 
observe  a  gulf  that  formerly  threw  out  terrents  of  fire,  now 
covered  with  the  most  luxuriant  vegetation  ;  and  from  an 
object  of  terror,  become  one  of  delight.  Here  you  gather 
the  most  delicious  fruit,  rising  from  what  was  but  lately  a 
barren  rock.  Here  the  ground  is  covered  with  flowers ;  and 
•we  wander  over  these  beauties,  and  contemplate  this  wilder- 
ness of  sweets,  without  considering  that  under  our  feet,  but 
a  few  yards  separate  us  from  lakes  of  liquid  fire  and  brimstone. 

But  our  astonishment  still  increases,  upon  raising  our 
eyes  to  the  higher  region  of  the  mountain.  There  we  be- 
hold in  perpetual  union,  the  two  elements  which  are  at  per- 
petual war — an  immense  gulf  of  fire,  for  ever  existing  in  the 
midst  of  snows  which  it  has  not  power  to  melt ;  and  im- 
mense fields  of  snow  and  ice,  for  ever  surrounding  this  gulf 
of  fire,  which  they  have  not  power  to  extinguish.  The 
woody  region  of  ^Etna  ascends  for  about  eight  or  nine  miles, 
and  forms  a  zone  or  girdle  of  the  brightest  green,  all  around 
the  mountain. 

This  night  we  passed  through  little  more  than  half  of 
it;  arriving  some  time  before  sun  set  at  our  lodging,  which 
was  a  large  cave,  formed  by  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
venerable  lavas.  Here  we  were  delighted  with  the  contem- 
plation of  many  beautiful  objects, — the  prospect  on  all  sides 
being  immense, — and  we  already  seemed  to  have  been  lifted 
from  the  earth.  After  a  comfortable  sleep,  and  other  refresh- 
ments, at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  we  recommenced  our  ex- 
pedition. 

Our  guide  now  began  to  display  his  great  knowledge  of 


DESCRIPTION  OF  .ETNA.  79 

the  mountain,  and  we  followed  him  with  implicit  confidenct 
where  perhaps  human  foot  had  never  trod  before.  Some- 
times through  gloomy  forests,  which  by  day  were  delightful, 
but  now,  from  the  universal  darkness,  the  rustling  of  the 
trees,  the  heavy  dull  bellowing  of  the  mountain,  the  vast 
expanse  of  ocean  stretched  at  an  immense  distance  below 
js,  inspired  a  kind  of  awful  horror. 

Sometimes  we  found  ourselves  ascending  great  rocks  of 
lava,  where,  if  our  mules  should  make  but  a  false  step,  we 
might  be  thrown  headlong  over  the  precipice.— -However,  by 
the  assistance  of  our  guide  we  overcame  all  these  difficulties, 
and  in  two  hours  we  had  ascended  above  the  region  of  vegeta- 
tion, and  had  left  the  forests  of  ^Erna  far  below,  which  now  ap- 
peared like  a  dark  and  gloomy  gulf  surrounding  the  mountain. 

The  prospect  before  us  was  of  a  very  different  nature: 
we  beheld  an  expanse  of  snow  and  ice  which  alarmed  us 
exceedingly,  and  almost  staggered  our  resolution.  In  the 
centre  of  this  we  descried  the  high  summit  of  the  mountain^ 
rearing  its  tremendous  head,  and  vomiting  out  torrents  ot 
smoke. 

The  ascent  for  some  time  was  not  steep,  and  as  the 
surface  of  the  snow  sunk  a  little,  we  had  tolerably  good 
footing ;  but  as  it  soon  began  to  grow  steeper,  we  found  our 
labor  greatly^  increased:  however,  we  determined  to  per- 
severe, calling  to  mind  that  the  emperor  Adrian  and  the 
philosopher  Plato  had  undergone  the  same ;  and  from  a  like 
motive  loo — to  see  the  rising  sun  from  the  top  of  JEtna. 

We  at  length  arrived  «tt  the  summit;  but  here,  de- 
scription must  ever  fall  short ;  for  no  imagination  has  dared 
to  form  an  idea  of  so  glorious,  and  so  magnificent  a  scene. 
Neither  is  there  on  the  surface  of  this  globe,  any  one  point, 
that  unites  so  many  awful  and  sublime  objects: — 

The  immense  elevation  from  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
drawn  as  it  were  to  a  single  point,  without  any  neighboring 
mountain  for  the  senses  and  imagination  to  rest  upon,  and 
recover  from  their  astonishment  in  their  way  down  to  the 
world ; — this  point,  or  pinnacle,  raised  on  the  brink  of  a 
bottomless  gulf,  as  old  as  the  world,  often  discharging  rivers 
of  fire,  and  throwing  out  burning  rocks,  with  a  noise  that 
shakes  the  whole  island, — add  to  this,  the  unbounded  extent 
of  -the  prospect,  comprehending  the  greatest  diversity, — and 
the  most  beautiful  scenery  in  nature, — w;th  the  rising  sun 
advancing  in  the  east,  to  illuminate  the  wondrous  scene. 

The  whole  atmosphere  by  degrees  kindled  up,  and 
showed,  dimly  and  faintly,  the  boundless  prospect  around. 


80  DESCRIPTION  OF  J3TNA. 

Both  sea  and  land  looked  dark  and  confused,  as  if  only 
emerging  from  their  original  chaos ;  and  light  and  darknesa 
seemed  still  undivided,  till  the  morning,  by  degrees  advan- 
cing, completed  the  separation.  The  stars  are  extinguished, 
and  the  shades  disappear.  The  forests,  which  but  now 
seemed  black  and  bottomless  gulfs,  from  which  no  ray  was 
reflected  to  show  their  form  or  colors,  appear  a  new  creation 
rising  to  the  sight,  and  catching  life  and  beauty  from  every 
increasing  beam. 

The  scene  still  enlarges,  and  the  horizon  seems  to 
widen  and  expand  itself  on  all  sides,  till  the  sun,  like  the 
great  Creator,  appears  in  the  east,  and  with  his  plastic  rays 
completes  the  mighty  scene.  All  appears  enchantment; 
and  it  is  with  difficulty  we  can  believe  we  are  sjill  on  earth. 
The  senses,  unaccustomed  to  the  sublimity  of  such  a  scene, 
are  bewildered  and  confounded  ;  and  it  is  not  till  after  some 
time,  that  they  are  capable  of  separating  and  judging  of  the 
objects  that  compose  it. 

The  body  of  the  sun  is  seen  rising  from  the  ocean,  im- 
mense tracts  both  of  sea  and  land  intervening ;  the  islands  of 
Lipari,  Panari,  Alicudi,  Strombolo,  and  Volcano,  with  their 
smoking  summits,  appear  under  your  feet:  you  look  down 
on  the  whole  of  Sicily  as  on  a  map;  and  can  trace  every 
river  through  all  its  windings,  from  its  source  to  its  mouth. 

The  view  is  absolutely  boundless  on  every  side;  nor 
is  there  any  one  object  within  the  circle  of  vision  to  interrupt 
it;  so  that  the  sight  is  every  where  lost  in  the  immensity; 
and  I  am  persuaded  it  is  only  frojn  the  imperfection  of  our 
organs,  that  the  coasts  of  Africa,  and  even  of  Greece,  are 
not  discovered,  as  they  are  certainly  above  the  horizon. 
The  circumference  of  the  visible  horizon,  on  the  top  of 
JEtna,  cannot  be  less  than  two  thousand  miles. 

But  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the  scene  is  certainly 
the  mountain  itself,  the  island  of  Sicily,  and  the  numerous 
islands  lying  around  it.  All  these,  by  a  kind  of  magic  in 
vision  that  I  am  at  a  loss  to  account  for,  seem  as  if  they 
were  brought  close  around  the  skirts  of  ^Etna — the  distances 
appearing  reduced  to  nothing. 

The  Regione  Deserta,  or  the  frigid  zone  of  ^Etna,  is 
the  first  object  that  calls  your  attention.  It  is  marked  out 
by  a  circle  of  snow  and  ice,  which  extends  on  all  sides  to 
the  distance  of  about  eight  miles.  In  the  center  of  this 
circle,  the  great  crater  of  the  mountain  rears  its  burning 
head;  and  the  regions  of  intense  cold  and  of  intense  heal 
seem  for  ever  to  be  united  in  the  same  point. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  ^ETNA.  81 

The  Regione  Deserta  is  immediately  succeeded  by 
the  Sylvosa,  or  the  woody  region,  which  forms  a  circle  of 
girdle  of  the  most  beautiful  green,  surrounding  the  mountain 
on  all  sides  ;  and  it  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  delightful 
«pots  on  earth.  This  presents  a  remarkable  contrast  with 
the  desert  region.  It  is  not  smooth  and  even,  like  the 
greatest  part  of  the  latter;  but  it  is  finely  variegated  by  an 
infinite  number  of  those  beautiful  little  mountains,  that  have 
been  formed  by  the  different  eruptions  of  ^Etna. 

All  these  have  now  acquired  a  wonderful  degree  of 
fertility,  except  a  very  few  that  are  but  newly  formed, — that 
is,  within  these  five  or  six  hundred  years;  for  it  certainly 
requires  some  thousands  to  bring  them  to  their  greatest 
degree  of  perfection.  We  looked  down  into  the  craters  of 
these,  and  attempted,  but  in  vain,  to  number  them. 

The  circumference  of  this  zone  or  great  circle  on 
^Etna,  is  not  less  than  70  or  80  miles.  It  is  every  where 
succeeded  by  the  vineyards,  orchards,  and  corn  fields,  that 
compose  the  Regione  Cultra,  or  the  fertile  region.  This 
last  zone  is  much  broader  than  the  others,  and  extends  on 
all  sides  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Its  whole  circumfer- 
ence, according  to  Recupero,  is  183  miles. 

It  is  likewise  covered  with  a  number  of  little  conical 
and  spherical  mountains,  and  exhibits  a  wonderful  variety 
of  forms  and  colors,  and  makes  a  delightful  contrast  with 
the  other  two  regions.  It  is  bounded  by  the  sea  to  the 
south  and  south-east,  and  on  all  its  other  sides  by  the  rivers 
Semetus  and  Alcantara,  which  run  almost  around  it.  The 
whole  course  of  these  rivers  is  seen  at  once,  and  all  their 
beautiful  windings  through  these  fertile  valleys  looked  upon, 
as  the  favored  possession  of  Ceres  herself. 

Cast  your  eyes  a  little  farther,  and  you  embrace  the 
whole  island,  and  see  all  its  cities,  rivers,  and  mountains,  de- 
lineated in  the  great  chart  of  nature, — all  the  adjacent  islands, 
the  whole  coast  of  Italy,  as  far  as  your  eye  can  reach; — for 
it  is  no  where  bounded,  but  every  where  lost  in  space.  On 
the  sun's  first  rising,  the  shadow  of  the  mountain  extends 
across  the  whole  island,  and  makes  a  large  track,  visible  even 
*n  the  sea  and  in  the  air.  By  degrees  this  is  shortened,  and, 
in  a  little  time,  is  confined  only  to  the  neighborhood  of  ^Etna, 

We  had  now  time  to  examine  the  fourth  region  of  that 
wonderful  mountain,  very  different  indeed  from  the  others, 
and  productive  of  very  different  sensations;  but  which  has 
undoubtedly  given  being  to  all  the  rest ; — I  mean  the  region 

7* 


82  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

of  fire,  The  present  crater  of  this  immense  volcano,  is  a 
circle  of  about  three  miles  and  a  half  in  circumference.  It 
goes  shelving  down  on  each  side,  and  forms  a  regulai 
hollow  like  a  vast  amphitheater. 

From  many  .places  of  this  space,  issue  volumes  of 
sulphureous  smoke,  which,  being  much  heavier  than  the 
circumambient11  air,  instead  of  rising  in  it,  as  smoke  generally 
does,  immediately  on  its  getting  out  of  the  crater  it  rolls 
down  the  side  of  the  mountain  like  a  torrent,  till  coming  to 
that  part  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  same  specific  gravity  with 
itself,  it  shoots  off,  horizontally,  and  forms  a  large  track  in 
the  air,  according  to  the  direction  of  the  wind,  which,  happily 
for  us,  carried  it  exactly  to  the  side  opposite  to  that  where 
we  were  placed* 

The  crater  is  so  hot  that  it  is  very  dangerous,  if  not 
impossible,  to  go  down  into  it;  besides^  the  smoke  is  very 
incommodious,13  and  in  many  places  the  surface  is  so  soft, 
there  have  been  instances  of  people  sinking  into  it,  and  pay- 
ing for  their  temerity  with  their  lives.  Near  the  center  of 
the  crater,  is  the  great  mouth  of  the  volcano — that  tremen- 
dous gulf  so  celebrated  in  all  ages,  and  looked  upon  as  the 
terror  and  scourge  both  of  this  and  another  life.  We  beheld 
it  with  awe  and  with  horror,  and  were  not  surprised  that  it 
had  been  considered  as  the  place  of  eternal  punishment. 

When  we  reflect  on  the  immensity  of  its  depth,  the 
vast  cells  and  caverns  whence  so  many  lavas  have  issued, — 
Ihe  force  of  its  internal  fire,  to  raise  up  those  lavas  to  so  vast 
a  height,  to  support  as  it  were  in  the  air,  and  even  to  force 
them  over  the  very  summit  of  the  crater, — with  all  the 
dreadful  accompaniments, — the  boiling  of  the  matter,  the 
shaking  of  tho  mountain,  the  explosion  of  flaming  rocks, 
&c. — we  must  allow  that  the  most  enthusiastic  imagination 
in  the  midst  of  all  its  terrors,  hardly  ever  formed  an  idea  of 
a  hell  more  dreadful.  JBrydone. 


The  Widow  and  her  Son. 

DURING  my  residence  in  the  country,  I  used  frequently 
to  attend  at  the  old  village  church,  which  stood  in  a  country 
filled  with  ancient  families,  and  contained  within  its  cold  and 


WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 


silent  aisles,  the  congregated  dust  of  many  noble  generations^ 
Its  shadowy  aisles,  its  mouldering  monuments,  its  dark  oaken 
panneling,  all  reverend  with  the  gloom  of  departed  years, 
seemed  to  fit  it  for  the  haunt  of  solemn  meditation. 

A  Sunday,  too,  m  the  country,  is  so  holy  in  its  repose; 
such  a  pensive  quiet  reigns  over  the  face  of  nature,  that  every 
restless  passion  is  charmed  down,  and  we  feel  all  the  natural 
religion  of  the  soul  gently  springing  up  within  us : 

11  Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky !— " 

I  do  not  pretend  to  be  what  is  called  a  devout  man,  but  there 
are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  church,  amid  the 
beautiful  serenity  of  nature,  which  I  experience  no  where 
else ;  and  if  not  a  more  religious,  I  think  I  am  a  better  man 
on  Sunday,  than  on  any  other  day  of  the  seven. 

But  in  this  church  I  felt  myself  continually  thrown 
back  upon  the  world,  by  the  frigidity  and  pomp  of  the  poor 
worms  around  me.  The  only  being  that  seemed  thoroughly 
to  feel  the  humble  and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian) 
was  a  poor  decrepit  old  woman,  bending  under  the  weight 
of  years  and  infirmities. — She  bore  the  traces  of  something 
better  than  abject  poverty.  The  lingerings  of  decent  pride 
were  visible  in  her  appearance.  Her  dress,  though  humble 
in  the  extreme^  was  scrupulously  clean* 

Some  trivial  respect,  too,  had  been  awarded  her;  for 
she  did  not  take  her  seat  among  the  village  poor,  but  sat  alone 
on  the  steps  of  the  altan  She  seemed  to  have  survived  all 
love,  all  friendship,  all  society  ;  and  to  have  nothing  left  her 
but  the  hopes  of  heaven*  When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising,  and 
bending  her  aged  form  in  prayer, — habitually  conning  her 
prayer-book,  which  her  palsied  hand  and  failing  eyes  would 
not  permit  her  to  read,  but  which  she  evidently  knew  by 
heart, — I  felt  persuaded  that  the  faltering  voice  of  that  poor 
woman  arose  to  Heaven  far  before  the  responses  of  the  clerk, 
the  swell  of  the  organ,. or  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches,  and  tkis 
was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  attracted  me. 
It  stood  on  a  knoll,  around  which  a  stream  made  a  beautiful 
bend,  and  then  wound  its  way  through  a  long  reach  of  soft 
meadow  scenery.  The  church  was  surrounded  by  yew 
trees,  which  seemed  almost  coeval  with  itself.  Its  tall 
Gothic  spire  shot  up  lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks 
and  crows  generally  wheeling  about  it. 


84  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

„  I  was  seated  there  one  still,  sunny  morning,  watching 
two  laborers  who  were  digging  a  grave. — They  had  chosen 
one  of  the  most  remote  and  neglected  corners  of  the  church- 
yard, where,  from  the  numher  of  nameless  graves  around,  it 
would  appear  that  the  indigent  and  friendless  were  huddled 
into  the  earth.  I  was  told  that  the  new-made  grave  was  for 
the  only  son  of  a  poor  widow. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  the  distinctions  of  worldly 
rank,  which  extend  thus  down  into  the  very  dust,  the  toll  of 
the  bell  announced  the  approach  of  the  funeral.  They  were 
ihe  obsequies  of  poverty,  with  which  pride  had  nothing  to 
do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials,  without  pall  or  other 
covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the  villagers.  The  sexton 
walked  before  with  an  air  of  cold  indifference. 

There  were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of 
affected  wo;  but  there  was  one  real  mourner,  who  feebly 
tottered  after  the  corpse.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the 
deceased — the  poor  old  woman  whom  I  had  seen  seated  on 
the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  was  supported  by  an  humble 
friend,  who  was  endeavoring  to  comfort  her.  A  few  of  the 
neighboring  poor  had  joined  the  train,  and  some  children  of 
the  village  were  running,  hand  in  hand,  now  shouting  with 
unthinking  mirth,  and  now  pausing  to  gaze,  with  childish 
curiosity,  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  person 
issued  from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  with 
prayer-book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  ser- 
vice, however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased  had 
been  destitute,  and  the  survivor  was  pennyless.  It  was  shuf- 
fled through,  therefore,  in  form,  but  coldly  and  unfeelingly. 
The  well-fed  priest  moved  but  a  few  steps  from  the  church 
door;  his  voice  could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave ;  and 
never  did  I  hear  the  funeral  service,  that  sublime  and  touch- 
ing ceremony,  turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of  words. 
I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on 
the  ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the 
deceased — "George  Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor 
mother  had  been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at.  the  head  of  it. 
Her  withered  hands  were  clasped  as  if  in  prayer;  but  I 
could  perceive,  by  a  feeble  rocking  of  the  body,  and  a  con- 
vulsive motion  of  the  lips,  that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last 
relics  of  her  son,  with  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's  heart. 

The  service  being  ended,  preparations  were  made  to 
deposit  the  coffin  in  the  earth.     There  was  that  bustling  stir 


WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  85 

which  breaks  so  harshly  on  the  feelings  of  grief  and  affec- 
tion— directions  given  in  the  cold  tones  of  business — the 
striking  of  spades  into  sand  and  gravel, — which,  at  the  grave 
of  those  we  love,  is  of  all  sounds  the  most  withering.  The 
bustle  around  seemed  to  waken  the  mother  from  a  wretched 
revery.  She  raised  her  glazed  eyes  and  looked  about  with 
a  faint  wildness. 

As  the  men  approached,  with  cords  to  lower  the  coffin 
into  the  grave,  she  wrung  her  hands,  and  broke  into  an  agony 
of  grief.  The  poor  Woman  who  attended  her,  took  her  by 
the  arm,  endeavoring  to  raise  her  from  the  earth,  and  to 
whisper  something  like  consolation  ;-^-she  could  only  shake 
her  head,  and  wring  her  hands,  as  one  not  to  be  comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking 
of  the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her;  but  when,  on  some 
accidental  obstruction,  there  Was  a  justling  of  the  coffin,  all 
the  tenderness  of  the  mother  burst  forth;  as  if  any  harm 
could  come  to  him  who  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  worldly 
suffering. 

I  could  see  no  more; — my  heart  swelled  into  my 
throat ; — my  eyes  filled  with  tears ; — I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting 
a  barbarous  part  in  standing  by,  and  gazing  idly  on  this 
scene  of  maternal  anguish.  I  wandered  to  another  part 
of  the  church-yard,  where  I  remained  until  the  funeral  train 
had  dispersed. 

When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting 
the  grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was 
dear  to  her  on  earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and  destitution, 
my  heart  ached  for  her.  What,  thought  I,  are  the  distresses 
of  the  rich! — they  have  friends  to  soothe, — pleasures  to 
beguile,— a  world  to  divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs.  What 
are  the  sorrows  of  the  young ! — their  growing  minds  soon 
close  above  the  wound,— their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise  be- 
neath the  pressure, — their  green  and  ductile  affections  soon 
twine  around  new  objects. 

But  the  sorrows  of  the  poor,  who  have  no  outward 
appliances  to  soothe, — the  sorrows  of  the  aged,  with  whom 
life  at  best  is  but  a  wintry  day,  and  who  can  look  for  no 
after-growth  of  joy, — the  sorrows  of  a  widow,  aged,  solitary, 
destitute,  mourning  over  an  only  son,  the  last  solace  of 
her  years, — these  are  indeed  sorrows  which  make  us  feel 
the  impotency  of  consolation. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  church-yard.  On 
my  way  homeward,  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had  acted 


86  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

as  comforter :  she  was  jusi  fecurniug  from  accompanying 
the  mother  to  her  lonely  habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her 
some  particulars  connected  with  the  affecting  scene  I  had 
witnessed* 

The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  village 
from  childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one  of  the  neatest 
Cottages,  and  by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the  assist- 
ance of  a  small  garden,  had  supported  themselves,  creditably 
and  comfortably,  and  led  a  happy,  and  a  blameless  life. 
They  had  one  son,  who  had  grown  up  to  be  the  staff  and 
pride  of  their  age. 

Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a  year  of 
scarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into  the  service 
of  one  of  the  small  craft,  that  plied  on  a  neighboring  river. 
He  had  not  been  long  in  this  employ,  when  he  was  entrap- 
ped by  a  press-gang,  and  carried  off  to  sea.  His  parents 
received  tidings  of  his  seizure,  but  beyond  that  they  could 
learn  nothing.  It  was  the  loss  of  their  main  prop.  The 
father,  who  was  already  infirm,  grew  heartless  and  melan- 
choly and  sunk  into  his  grave. 

The  widow,  left  lonely  in  her  age  and  feebleness^ 
could  no  longer  support  herself,  and  came  upon  the  parish. 
Still  there  was  a  kind  feeling  toward  her  throughout  the 
Village ;  and  a  certain  respect  as  being  one  of  the  oldest 
inhabitants.  As  no  one  applied  for  the  cottage  in  which 
she  had  passed  so  many  happy  days,  she  was  permitted  to 
remain  in  it,  where  she  lived,  solitary  and  almost  helpless. 
The  few  wants  of  nature  were  chiefly  supplied  from  the 
scanty  productions  of  her  little  garden,  which  the  neighbors 
would  now  and  then  cultivate  for  her. 

It  was  but  a  few  days  before  the  time  at  which  these 
circumstances  were  told  me^  that  she  was  gathering  some 
Vegetables  for  her  repast,  when  she  heard  the  cottage  door, 
Which  faced  the  garden,  suddenly  open.  A  stranger  came 
out,  and  seemed  to  be  looking  eagerly  and  wildly  around. 
He  was  dressed  in  seamen's  clothes,  was  emaciated  and 
ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the  air  of  one  broken  by  sickness  and 
hardships. 

He  saw  her,  and  hasted  toward  her,  but  his  steps 
were  faint  and  faltering;  he  sunk  on  his  knees  before  her, 
and  sobbed  like  a  child.  The  poor  woman  gazed  upon  him 
with  a  vacant  and  wandering  eye — "  Oh  my  dear,  dear  mo- 
ther! don't  you  know  your  son!  your  poor  boy  George  !" 
It  was  indeed  the  wreck  of  her  once  noble  lad,  who,  shat- 


WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 


ttered  by  wounds,  by  sickness,  and  foreign  imprisonment,  had 
At  length  dragged  his  wasted  limbs  homeward,  to  repose 
among  the  scenes  of  his  childhood. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such  a 
meeting,  where  joy  and  sorrow  were  so  completely  blended* 
— still  he  was  alive !  he  had  come  home  !  he  might  yet  live 
to  comfort  and  cherish  her  old  age  !  Nature,  however,  was 
exhausted  in  him ;  and  if  any  thing  had  been  wanting  to 
finish  the  work  of  fate,  the  desolation  of  his  native  cottage 
would  have  been  sufficient.  He  stretched  himself  on  the 
pallet,  on  which  his  widowed  mother  had  passed  many  a 
sleepless  night,  and  he  never  rose  from  it  again. 

The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers 
had  returned,  crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  comfort 
and  assistance  that  their  humble  means  afforded. — He  was 
too  weak,  however,  to  talk — he  could  only  look  his  thanks* 
His  mother  was  his  constant  attendant ;  and  he  seemed 
Unwilling  to  be  helped  by  any  other  hand. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the 
pride  of  manhood, — that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings  it 
back  to  the  feelings  of  infancy*  Who  that  has  languished^ 
— even  in  advanced  life,  in  sickness  and  despondency, — who 
that  has  pined  on  a  weary  bed,  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness 
of  a  foreign  land, — but  has  thought  of  the  mother  "that 
looked  on  his  childhood,"  that  smoothed  his  pillow  and 
administered  to  his  helplessness? 

Oh !  there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a 
mother  to  a  son,  that  transcends  all  the  other  affections  of* 
the  heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor 
daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor 
stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to 
his  convenience ;  she  will  surrender  every  pleasure  to  his 
enjoyment;  she  will  glory  in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his 
prosperity :  and,  if  adversity  overtake  him,  he  will  be  the 
dearer  to  her  by  misfortune ;  and,  if  disgrace  settle  upon  his 
name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish  him;  and,  if  all  the 
world  beside  cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 

Poor  George  Somers  had  known  well  what  it  was  to 
be  in  sickness,  and  have  none  to  soothe — lonely  and  in  pri- 
son, and  none  to  visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his  mother 
from  his  sight :  if  she  moved  away,  his  eye  would  follow  her* 
She  would  sit  for  hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he  slept. 
Sometimes  he  would  start  from  a  feverish  dream,  and  look 
anxiously  up  until  he  saw  her  venerable  form  bending  over 
him ;  when  he  would  take  her  hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom, 
and  fall  asleep  with  the  tranquillity  of  a  child :— in  this  way 
he  died. 

.  * . 


88  THE  BLIND  PREACHER. 

My  first  impulse  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of  afflic- 
tion, was  to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and  administer 
pecuniary  assistance,  and,  if  possible,  comfort.  I  found 
however  on  inquiry,  that  the  good  feelings  of  the  villagers 
had  prompted  them  to  do  every  thing  that  the  case  admit- 
ted ;  and  as  the  poor  know  best  how  to  console  each  other's 
sorrows,  I  did  not  venture  to  intrude. 

The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church,  when, 
to  my  surprise,  I  saw  the  old  woman  tottering  down  the  aisle 
to  her  accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  had 
made  an  effort  to  put  on  something  like  mourning  for  her 
son ;  and  nothing  could  be  more  touching  than  this  struggle 
between  pious  affection  and  utter  poverty: — a  black  riband 
or  so — a  faded  black  handkerchief,  and  one  or  two  more  such 
humble  attempts  to  express,  by  outward  signs,  that  grief 
which  passes  show. 

When  I  looked  around  upon  the  storied  monuments, 
the  stately  hatchments,  the  cold  marble  pomp,  with  which 
grandeur  mourned  magnificently  over  departed  pride, — and 
then  turned  to  this  poor  widow,  bowed  down  by  age  and 
sorrow  at  the  altar  of  her  God,  and  offering  up  the  prayers 
and  praises  of  a  pious,  though  a  broken  heart, — I  felt  that 
this  living  monument  of  real  grief  was  worth  them  all. 

I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members  of 
the  congregation,  and  they  were  moved  by  it.  They  exerted 
themselves  to  render  her  situation  more  comfortable,  and  to 
lighten  her  afflictions.  It  was  however  but  smoothing  a  few 
steps  to  the  grave.  In  the  course  of  a  Sunday  or  two  after, 
she  was  missed  from  her  usual  seat  at  church,  and  before  I 
left  the  neighborhood,  I  heard,  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction, 
that  she  had  quietly  breathed  her  last,  and  gone  to  rejoin 
those  she  loved,  in  that  world  where  sorrow  is  never  known, 
and  friends  are  never  parted. 


The  Blind  Preacher. 

IT  was  one  Sunday >  as  I  traveled  through  the  county 
of  Orange,  in  Virginia,  that  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  cluster 
of  horses,  tied  near  a  ruinous,  old,  wooden  house,  in  the 
forest,  not  far  from  the  road  side.  Having  frequently  seen 
such  objects  before,  in  traveling  through  these  states,  I  had 
no  difficulty  in  understanding  that  this  was  a  place  ol 
religious  worship. 

Devotion  alone  should  have  stopped  me,  to  join  in  the 


THE  BLIND  PREACHER. 


duties  of  the  congregation  ;  but  I  must  confess,  that  curiosity 
to  hear  the  preacher  of  such  a  wilderness,  was  not  the  least 
of  my  motives.  On  entering  the  house,  I  was  struck  with 
his  preternatural  appearance.  He  was  a  tall  and  very  spare 
old  man, — his  head,  whfch  was  covered  with  a  white  linen 
cap,  his  shriveled  hands,  and  his  voice,  were  all  shaking 
under  the  influence  of  a  palsy ;  and  a  few  moments  ascer- 
tained to  me  that  he  was  perfectly  .blind. 

The  first  emotions  which  touched  my  breast,  were  those 
of  mingled  pity  and  veneration.  But  how  soon  were  all  my 
feelings  changed  !  The  lips  of  Plato  were  never  more 
worthy  of  a  prognostic  swarm  of  bees,  than  were  the  lips 
of  this  holy  man  !  It  was  a  day  of  the  administration  of  the 
sacrament ;  and  his  subject,  of  course,  was  the  passion  of 
our  Savior.  I  had  heard  the  subject  handled  a  thousand 
times:  I  had  thought  it  exhausted  long  ago.  Little  did  I 
suppose,  that  in  the  wild  woods  of  America,  I  was  to  meet 
with  a  man,  whose  eloquence  would  give,  to  this  topic,  a  new 
and  more  sublime  pathos  than  I  had  ever  before  witnessed. 

As  he  descended  from  the  pulpit,  to  distribute  the  mys- 
tic symbols,  there  was  a  peculiar — a  more  than  human 
solemnity  in  his  air  and  manner,  which  made  my  blood  run 
cold,  and  my  whole  frame  shiver.  He  then  drew  a  picture 
of  the  sufferings  of  our  Savior, —his  trial  before  Pilate, — his 
ascent  up  Calvary, — his  crucifixion,  and  his  death.  I  knew 
the  whole  history ;  but  never,  until  then,  had  I  heard  the 
circumstances  so  selected,  so  arranged,  so  colored !  It  was 
all  new;  and  I  seemed  to  have  heard  it  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life. 

His  enunciation  was  so  deliberate  that  his  voice  trem- 
bled on  every  syllable ;  and  every  heart  in  the  assembly 
trembled  in  unison.  His  peculiar  phrases  had  that  force  of 
description,  that  the  original  scene,  appeared  to  be  at  that 
moment  acting  before  our  eyes.  We  saw  the  very  faces  of 
the  Jews — the  staring,  frightful  distortions  of  malice  and 
rage.  We  saw  the  buffet:  my  soul  kindled  with  a  flame  of 
indignation  ;  and  my  hands^were  involuntarily  and  convul- 
sively clinched. 

But  when  he  came  to  touch  on  the  patience,  the  foi»- 
giving  meekness  of  our  Savior;  when  he  drew,  to  the  life, 
— his  blessed  eyes  streaming  in  tears  to  heaven, — his  voice 
breathing  to  God  a  soft  and  gentle, prayer  of  pardon  on  hia 
enemies, — "  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 


90  THE  BLIND  PREACHER. . 

they  do ;" — the  voice  of  the  preacher  which  had  all  along  fal- 
tered, grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until,  his  utterance  heing  en- 
tirely obstructed  by  the  force  of  his  feelings,  he  raised  his 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  and  burst  into  a  loud  and  irrepressi- 
ble flood  of  grief.  The  effect  was  inconceivable.  The  whole 
house  resounded  with  the  mingled  groans,  and  sobs,  and 
shrieks  of  the  congregation. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  tumult  had  subsided,  so  far 
as  to  permit  him  to  proceed.  Indeed,  judging  by  the  usual, 
but  fallacious  standard  of  my  own  weakness,  I  began  to  be 
very  uneasy  for  the  situation  of  the  preacher.  For  I  could 
not  conceive  how  he  would  be  able  to  let  his  audience  down 
from  the  height  to  which  he  had  wound  them,  without  im- 
pairing the  solemnity  and  dignity  of  his  subject,  or  perhaps 
shocking  them  by  the  abruptness  of  the  fall.  But — no:  the 
descent  was  as  beautiful  and  sublime,  as  the  elevation  had 
been  rapid  and  enthusiastic. 

The  first  sentence  with  which  he  broke  the  awful  si- 
lence, was  a  quotation  from  Rousseau  ; — "  Socrates  died 
like  a  philosopher,  but  Jesus  Christ  like  a  God!" — I  despair 
of  giving  you  any  idea  of  the  effect  produced  by  this  short 
sentence,  unless  you  could  perfectly  conceive  the  whole 
manner  of  the  man,  as  well  as  the  peculiar  crisis  in  the  dis- 
course. Never  before,  did  I  completely  understand  what 
Demosthenes  meant,  by  laying  such  stress  on  delivery. 

You  are  to  bring  before  you  the  venerable  figure  of  the 
preacher, — his  blindness  constantly  recalling  to  your  recol- 
lection old  Homer,  Ossian  and  Milton,  and  associate  with 
his  performance  the  melancholy  grandeur  of  their  geniuses, 
— you  are  to  imagine  that  you  hear  his  slow,  solemn,  well- 
accented  enunciation,  and  his  voice  of  affecting,  trembling 
melody — you  are  to  remember  the  pitch  of  passion  and  en- 
thusiasm to  which  the  congregation  were  raised, — and  then, 
the  few  minutes  of  portentous,  death-like  silence  which 
reigned  throughout  the  house, — to  see  the  preacher,  removing 
his  white  handkerchief  from  his  aged  face,  even  yet  wet  from 
the  recent  torrent  of  his  tears,  and  slowly  stretching-  forth 
the  palsied  hand  which  holds  it,  Begin  the  sentence — "  Soc- 
rates died  like  a  philosopher" — then  pausing,  raising  his 
other  hand,  pressing  them  both,  clasped  together,  with 
warmth  and  energy  to  his  breast,  lifting  his  sightless  balls 
to  Heaven,  and  pouring  his  whole  soul  into  his  tremulous 
voice—"  but  Jesus  Christ— like  a  God  !"— If  he  had  been 
indeed  and  in  truth  an  angel  of  light,  the  effect  could 
scarcely  have  been  more  divine. 


THE  HEAD  STONE.  91 

Whatever  I  had  been  able  to  conceive  of  the  sublimity 
of  Massillon,  or  the  force  of  Bourdaloue,  had  fallen  far  short 
of  the  power  which  I  felt,  from  the  delivery  of  this  simple 
sentence.  The  blood,  which  just  before  had  rushed  in  a 
hurricane  upon  my  .brain,  ai;d,  in  the  violence  and  agony  of 
my  feelings,  had  held  my  whole  system  in  suspense,  now 
ran  back  into  my  heart,  with  a  sensation  which  I  cannot 
describe — a  kind  of  shuddering  delicious  horror !  The  par- 
oxysm of  blended  pity  and  indignation  to  which  I  had  been 
transported,  subsided  into  the  deepest  self-abasement,  humil- 
ity, and  adoration.  I  had  just  been  lacerated  and  dissolved 
by  sympathy  for  our  Savior,  as  a  fellow  creature ;  bat  now, 
with  fear  and  trembling,  I  adored  him  as  — "a  God  !" 

If  this  description  gives  you  the  impression,  that  this 
incomparable  minister  had  any  thing  of  shallow,  theatrical 
trick  in  his  manner,  it  does  him  great  injustice.  I  have 
never  seen,  in  any  other  orator,  such  an  union  of  simplicity 
and  majesty.  He  has  not  a  gesture,  an  attitude,  or  an  ac- 
cent, to  which  he  does  not  seem  forced  by  the  sentiment 
which  he  is  expressing.  His  mind  is  too  serious,  too  earnest, 
too  solicitous,  and,  at  the  same  time  too  dignified,  to  stoop 
to  artifice.  Although  as  far  removed  from  ostentation  as  a 
man  can  be,  yet  it  is  clear,  from  the  train,  the  style  and 
substance  of  his  thoughts,  that  he  is  not  only  a  very  polite 
scholar  but  a  man  of  very  extensive  and  profound  erudition. 

This  man  has  been  before  my  imagination  almost  ever 
since.  A  thousand  times  as  I  rode  along,  I  dropped  the 
reins  of  my  bridle,  stretched  forth  my  hand,  and  tried  to 
imitate  his  quotation  from  Rosseau ;  a  thousand  times  I 
abandoned  the  attempt  in  despair,  and  felt  persuaded  that 
his  peculiar  manner  and  power,  arose  from  an  energy  of  soul 
which'  nature  could  give,  but  which  no  human  being  could 
justly  copy. 


The  Head  Stone. 

THE  coffin  was  let  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  grave ;  the 
planks  were  removed  from  the  heaped-up  brink ;  the  first 
rattling  clods  had  struck  their  knell ;  the  quick  shoveling 
was  over;  and  the  long,  broad,  skilfully  cut  pieces  of  turf 
were  aptly  joined  together,  and  trimly  laid  by  the  beating 
spade ;  so  that  the  newest  mound  in  the  church-yard,  was 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  those  that  were  grown  over 


92  THE  HEAD  STONE. 

by.  the  undisturbed  grass  and  daises  of  a  luxuriant  spring. 
The  burial  was  soon  over;  and  the  party  with  one  consent- 
ing motion,  having  uncovered  their  heads,  in  decent  rever- 
ence of  the  place  and  occasion,  were  beginning  to  separate, 
and  about  to  leave  the  church-yard. 

Here  some  acquaintances,  from  distant  parts  of  the  pa- 
rish, who  had  not  had  an  opportunity  of  addressing  each  other 
in  the  house  that  had  belonged  to  the  deceased,  nor  in  the 
course  of  the  few  hundred  yards  that  the  little  procession  had 
to  move  over  from  his  bed  to  his  grave,  were  shaking  hands, 
quietly  and  cheerfully,  and  inquiring  after  the  welfare  of 
each  other's  families.  There,  a  small  knot  of  neighbours 
were  speaking,  without  exaggeration,  of  the  respectable  cha- 
racter which  the  deceased  had  borne,  and  mentioning  to  one 
another,  the  little  incidents  of  his  life,  some  of  them  so  re- 
mote as  to  be  known  only  to  the  gray-headed  persons  of  the 
group. 

While  a  few  yards  farther  removed  from  the  spot,  were 
standing  together  parties  who  discussed  ordinary  concerns, 
altogether  unconnected  with  the  funeral,  such  as  the  state  of 
the  markets,  the  promise  of  the  season,  or  change  of  tenants ; 
but  still  with  a  sobriety  of  manner  and  voice,  that  was  insen- 
sibly produced  by  the  influence  of  the  simple  ceremony  now 
closed, — by  the  quiet  graves  around,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
spire  and  gray  walls  of  the  house  of  God. 

Two  men  yet  stood  together  at  the  head  of  the  grave, 
with  countenances  of  sincere^  but  unimpassioned  grief. 
They  were  brothers — the  only  sons  of  him  who  had  been 
buried.  And  there  was  something  in.  their  situation  that 
naturally  kept  the  eyes  of  many  directed  upon  them,  for  a 
long  time,  and  more  intently  than  would  have  been  the  case, 
had  there  been  nothing  more  observable  about  them,  than  the 
common  symptoms  of  a  common  sorrow.  But  these  two 
brothers,  who  were  now  standing  at  th»e  head  of  their  father's 
grave,  had  for  some  years  been  totally  estranged  from  each 
other;  and  the  only  words  that  had  passed  between  them, 
during  all  that  time,  had  been  uttered  within  a  few  days 
past,  during  the  necessary  preparations  for  the  old  man's 
funeral. 

No  deep  and  deadly  quarrel  was  between  these  brothers, 
and  neither  of  them  could  distinctly  tell  the  cause  of  this 
unnatural  estrangement.  Perhaps  dim  jealousies  of  their 
father's  favor, — selfish  thoughts  that  will  sometimes  force 
themselves  into  poor  men's  hearts,  respecting  temporal  ex-* 
pectations — unaccommodating  manners  on "  both  sides—1 


THE  HEAD  STONE.         '  93 

taunting  words  that  mean  little  when  uttered,  but  which 
rankle  and  fester  in  remembrance — imagined  opposition  of 
interests,  that,  duly  considered,  would  have  been  found  one 
and  the  same— these,  and  many  other  causes,  slight  when 
single,  but  strong  when  rising  up  together  in  one  baneful 
band,  had  gradually,  but  fatally  infected  their  hearts,  till  at 
last,  they  who  in  youth  had  been  seldom  separate,  and  truly 
attached,  now  met  at  market,  and,  miserable  to  say,  at 
church,  with  dark  and  averted  laces,  like  different  clansmen 
during  a  feud. 

Surely  if  any  thing  could  have  softened  their  hearts  to- 
wards each  other,  it  must  have  been  to  stand  silently,  side  by 
side,  while  the  earth,  stones  and  clods,  were  falling  down 
upoa  their  father's  coffin.  And  doubtless  their  hearts  were 
so  softened.  But  pride,  though  it  cannot  prevent  the  holy 
affections  of  nature  from  being  felt,  may  prevent  them  from 
being  shown ;  and  these  two  brothers  stood  there  together,  de- 
termined not  to  let  each  other  know  the  mutual  tenderness 
that,  in  spite  of  them,  was  gushing  up  in  their  hearts,  and 
teaching  them  the  unconfessed  folly  and  wickedness  of  their 
causeless  quarrel. 

A  head-stone  had  been  prepared,  and  a  person  came  for- 
ward to  plant  it.  The  elder  brother  directed  him  how  to 
place  it — a  plain  stone,  with  a  sand-glass,  skull,  and  cross- 
bones,  chiseled  not  rudely,  and  a  few  words  inscribed.  The 
younger  brother  regarded  the  operation  with  a  troubled  eye, 
and  said,  loudly  enough  to  be  heard  by  the  by-standers, 
"William,  this  was  not  kind  in  you;  for  you  should  have 
told  me  of  this.  I  loved  rny  father  as  well  as  you  could  love 
him.  You  were  the  elder,  and,  it  may  be,  the  favorite  son; 
but  I  had  a  right  in  nature  to  have  joined  you  in  ordering 
this  head-stone,  had  I  not?" 

During  these  words,  the  stone  was  sinking  into  the 
earth,  and  many  persons  who  were  on  their  way  from  the 
grave  returned.  For  a  while  the  elder  brother  said  nothing, 
for  he  had  a  consciousness  in  his  heart  that  he  ought  to  have 
consulted  his  father's  son,  in  designing  this  last  becoming 
mark  of  affection  and  respect  to  his  memory ;  so  the  stone 
was  planted  in  silence,  and  now  stood  erect,  decently  and 
simply,  among  the  other  unostentatious  memorials  of  the 
humble  dead. 

The  inscription  merely  gave  the  name  and  age  of  the 
deceased,  and  told  that  the  stone  had  been  erected  "by  hig 
affectionate  sons."  The  sight  of  these  words  seemed  to  soft- 
en the  displeasure  of  the  angry  man,  and  lie  said,  somewha 


04  THE  HEAD  STONE. 


more  mildly,  "Yes,  we  were  his  affectionate  sons,  and  since 
my  name  is  on  the  stone,  1  am  satisfied,  brother.  We  have 
not  drawn  together  kindly  of  late  years,  and  perhaps  never 
may  ;  but  I  acknowledge  and  respect  your  worth  ;  and  here, 
before  our  own  friends,  and  before  the  friends  of  our  father, 
with  my  foot  above  his  head,  1  express  my  willingness  to  be 
on  better  terms  with  you ;  and  if  we  cannot  command  love 
in  our  hearts,  let  us,  at'least,  brother,  bar  out  all  unkindness." 

The  minister,  who  had  attended  the  funeral,  and  had 
something  intrusted  to  him  to  say  publicly  before  he  left  the 
church-yard,  now  came  forward,  and  asked  the  elder  brother 
why  he  spake  not  regarding  this  matter.  He  saw  that  there 
was  something  of  a  cold,  and  sullen  pride  rising  up  in  his 
heart;  for  not  easily  may  any  man  hope  to  dismiss  from  the 
chamber  of  his  heart,  even  the  vilest  guest,  if  once  cherished 
there.  With  a  solemn,  and  almost  severe  air,  he  looked  up- 
on the  relenting  man,  and  then,  changing  his  countenance 
into  serenity,  said  gently, — 

"  Behold  how  good  a  thing  it  is, 
Arid  how  beeotntng  w«tij 
Together  such  ap  brethren  are. 
In  unity  to  dwell." 

The  time,  the  place,  and  this  beautiful  expression  of  a 
natural  sentiment,  quite  overcame  a  heart,  in  which  many 
kind,  if  not  warm  affections  dwelt;  and  the  man  thus  ap- 
pealed to,  bowed  down  his  head  and  wept, — "Give  me  your 
hand,  brother ;"— 'and  it  was  given,  while  a  murmur  of  satis- 
faction arose  from  all  present,  and  all  hearts  felt  kindlier 
and  more  humanely  toward  each  other. 

As  the  brothers  stood,  fervently  but  composedly,  srrasp- 
ing' each  other's  hand,  in  the  little  hollow  that  lay  between 
the  grave  of  their  mother,  long  since  dead,  and  of  their  fa- 
ther, whose  shroud  was  happily  not  vet  still,  from  the  fall 
of  dust  to  dust,  the  minister  stood  beside  them  with  a  plea- 
sant countenance,  and  said,  "  I  must  fulfill  the  promise  I 
made  to  your  father  on  his  death-bed.  I  mast  read  to  you  a 
few  words  which  his  hand  wrote,  at  an  hour  when  his 
tongue  denied  its  office. 

"  I  must  not  say  that  you  did  your  duty  to  your  old 
father;  for  did  he  not  often  beseech  you,  apart  from  one 
another,  to  be  reconciled,  for  your  own  sakes  as  Christians, 
for  his  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  mother  who  bare  you, 
and,  Stephen,  who  died  that  you  might  be  bora?  When  the 
palsy  struck  him  for  the  last  time,  you  were  both  absent,  nor 
was  it  your  fault  that  you  were  not  beside  the  old  man  when 
he  died. 


HOWARD,  THE  PHILANTHROPIST.  V5 

"As  long  as  sense  continued  with  him  here,  did  he 
think  of  you  two,  and  of  you  two  alone.  Tears  were  in  his 
eyes, — I  saw  them  there,  and  on  his  cheek  too,  when  no 
breath  came  from  his  lips.  But  of  this  no  more.  He  died 
with  this  paper  in  his  hand ;  and  he  made  me  know  that  I 
was  to  read  it  to  you  over  his  grave.  I  now  obey  him. — 
"My  sons,  if  you  will  let  my  bones  lie  quiet  in  the  grave, 
near  the  dust  of  your  mother,  depart  not  from  my  burial, 
till,  in  the  name  of  God  and  Christ,  you  promise  to  love 
one  another  as  you  used  to  do.  Dear  boys,  receive  my  bless- 
ing." 

Some  turned  their  heads  away  to  hide  the  tears  that 
needed  not  to  be  hidden  ; — and  when  the  brothers  had  releas- 
ed each  other  from  a  long  and  sobbing  embrace,  many  went 
up  to  them,  and  in  a  single  word  or  two,  expressed  their  joy 
at  this  perfect  reconcilement.  The  brothers  themselves 
walked  away  from  the  church-yard,  arm  in  arm,  with  the 
minister  to  the  mpnse. 

On  the  following  Sabbath,  they  were  seen  sitting  with 
their  families  in  the  same  pew,  and  it  was  observed,  that  they 
read  together  from  the  same  Bible  when  the  minister  gave 
out  the  text;  and  that  they  sung  together,  taking  hold  of  the 
same  psalm-book.  The  same  psalm  was  sung,  (given  out  at 
their  own  request,)  of  which  one  verse  had  been  repeated  at 
their  father's  grave; — a  larger  sum  than  usual  was  on  that 
Sabbath  found  in  the  plate  for  the  poor,— for  love  and  charity 
are  sisters.  And  ever  after,  both  during  the  peace  and  the 
troubles  of  this  life,  the  hearts  of  the  brothers  were  as  one, 
and  in  nothing  were  they  divided.  Wilson. 


The  Sultan   and  Mr.  Howard,  the  Philanthropist. 

Sultan.  ENGLISHMAN,  you  were  invited  hither  to  receive 
public  thanks,  for  our  troops  restored  to  health  by  your  pre- 
scriptions. Ask  a  reward  adequate  to  your  services. 


96  HOWARD,  THE  PHILANTHROPIST. 


Howard.  Sultan,  the  reward  I  ask,  is,  leave  to  preserve 
more  of  your  people  still. 

Suit.  How  more  ?  my  subjects  are  in  health  ;  no  contagion 
visits  them. 

How.  The  prisoner  is  your  subject.  There,  misery,  more 
contagious  than  disease,  preys  on  the  lives  of  hundreds:  sen- 
tenced but.  to  confinement,  their  doom  is  death.  Immured 
in  damp  arid  dreary  vaults,  they  daily  perish;  and  who  can 
tell  but  that,  among  the  many  hapless  sufferers,  there  may  be 
hearts  bent  down  with  penitence,  to  heaven  and  you,  for 
every  slight  offense : — there  rr\ay  be  some,  among  the 
wretched  multitude,  even  innocent  victims.  Let  me  seek 
them  out;  let  me  save  them  and  you. 

Sid.  Amazement!  retract  your  application:  curb  this 
weak  pity,  and  accept  bur  thanks. 

How.  Restrain  my  pity; — and  what  can  I  receive  in  re- 
compense for  that  soft  bond  which  links  me  to  the  wretched  ? 
and,  while  it  sooths  their  so'rrow,  repays  me  more  than  all 
the  gifts  an  empire  can  bestow  ! — But,  if  it  be  a  virtue  repug- 
nant to  your  plan  of  government,  I  apply  not  in  the  name 
of  Pity,  but  of  Justice. 

Sul.  Justice! 

How.  The  justice  that  forbids  all,  but  the  worst  of  crimi- 
nals, to  be  denied  that  wholesome  air  the  very  brute  creation 
freely  takes. 

Sul.  Consider  for  whom  you  plead — for  men  (if  not  base 
culprits)  so  misled,  so  depraved,  they  are  dangerous  to  our 
state,  and  deserve  none  oi'its  blessings. 

How.  If  not  upon  the  undeserving, — if  not  upon  the  wretch- 
ed wanderer  from  the  paths  of  rectitude. — where  shall 
the  sun  diffuse  his  light,  or  the  clouds  distil  their  dew? 
Where  shall  spring  breathe  fragrance,  or  autumn  pour  its 
plenty  ? 

Sul.-  Sir, your  sentiments,  still  more  your  character,  excite 
my  curiosity.  They  tell  me  that  in  our  camps  you  visited 
each  sick  man's  bed. — administered  yourself  the  healing 
draught, — encouraged  our  savages  with  the  hope  of  life,  or 
pointed  out  their  better  hope  in  death. — The  widow  speaks 
your  charities,  the  orphan  lisps  your  bounties,  and  the  rough 
Indian  rnelts  in  tears  to  bless  you. — I  wish  to  ask  why  you 
have  done  all  this? — what  is  it  that  prompts  you  thus  to  be- 
friend the  miserable  and  forlorn  ? 

How.  It  is  in  vain  to  explain :  the  time  it  would  take  to 
rereal  to  you 

Sul.  Satisfy  my  curiosity  in  writing  then. 


CADMUS  AND  HERCULES.  97 

How.  Nay,  if  you  will  read,  I'll  send  a  book  in  which  is 
already  written  why  I  act  thus. 

Sul.  What  book?  what  is  it  called? 

How.  "  The  Christian  Doctrine."  There  you  will  find  all 
I  have  done  was  but  my  duty. 

Sul.  Your  words  recall  reflections  that  distract  me ;  nor 
san  I  bear  the  pressure  on  my  mind,  without  confessing — / 
im  a  Christian!  Mrs.  Inchbald. 


Cadmus   and  Hercules. 

Hercules.  Do  you  pretend  to  sit  as  high  on  Olympus  as 
jfercules?  Did  you  kill  the  Nemean  lion,  the  Erymanthean 
t"oar,  the  Lernean  serpent,  and  Stymphalian  birds?  Did  you 
destroy  tyrants  and  robbers? — You  value  yourself  greatly  on 
subduing  one  serpent:  I  did  as  much  as  that  while  I  lay  in 
my  cradle. 

Cadmus.  It  is  not  on  account  of  the  serpent  that  I  boast 
myself  a  greater  benefactor  to  Greece  than  you.  Actions 
•should  be  valued  by  their  utility,  rather  than  their  splendor. 
I  taught  Greece  the  art  of  writing,  to  which  laws  owe  their 
precision  and  permanency.  You  subdued  monsters;  I  civi- 
lized men.  It  is  from  untamed  passions,  not  from  wild  beasts, 
that  the  greatest  evils  arise  to  human  society.  By  wisdom, 
by  art,  by  the  united  strength  of  civil  community,  men  have 
been  enabled  to  subdue  the  whole  race  of  lions,  bears,  and 
serpents;  and,  what  is  more,  to  bind  bylaws  and  wholesome 
regulations,  the  ferocious  violence  and  dangerous  treachery 
of  the  human  disposition.  Had  lions  been  destroyed  only 
in  single  combat,  men  had  had  but  a  bad  time  of  it; — and 
what  but  laws  could  awe  the  men  who  killed  the  lions  ?  The 
genuine  glory,  the  proper  distinction  of  the  rational  species, 
arise  from  the  perfection  of  the  mental  powers.  Courage  is 
apt  to  be  fierce,  and  strength  is  often  exerted  in  acts  of  op- 
pression; but  wisdom  is  the  associate  of  justice.  It  assists 
her  to  form  equal  laws,  to  pursue  right  measures,  to  correct 
power,  protect  weakness,  and  to  unite  individuals  in  a  com- 
mon interest  and  general  welfare.  Heroes  may  kill  tyrants, 
but  it  is  wisdom  and  laws  that  prevent  tyranny  and  oppres- 
sion. The  operations  of  policy  far  surpass  the  labors  of  Her- 
cules, preventing  many  evils  which  valor  and  might  cannot 
even  redress.  You  heroes  regard  nothing  but  glory ;  and 


8 


98  CADMUS  AND  HERCULEF. 

scarcely  consider  whether  the  conquests  which  raise  your 
fame,  are  really  beneficial  to  your  country.  Unhappy  are 
the  peqple  who  are  governed  by  valor,  not  directed  by  pru- 
dence, and  not  mitigated  by  the  gentle  arts  ! 

Her.  I  do  not  expect  to  find  an  admirer  of  my  strenuous 
life,  in  the  man!  v/hb  taught  his  countrymen  to  sit  still  and 
read;  and  to  lose  the  hours  qf  youth  and  action  in  idle  spe- 
culation and  the  sport  of  words. 

Cad.  An  ambition  to  have  a  place  in  the  registers  of  fame, 
is  the  Eurystheus  which  imposes  heroic  labors  on  mankind. 
The  muses  incite  to  action,  as  well  as  entertain  the  hours  of 
impose;  and  I  think  you  should  honor  them  for  presenting 
tp  heroes  so  noble  a  recreation,  as  may  prevent  their  taking 
typ'tht?  distaff,  when  they  lay  down  the  club. 

jfer,  Wits  as  well  as  heroes  can  take  up  the  distaff.  What 
think  you  of  their  thin-spun  systems  of  philosophy,  or  la- 
sciy.iovjs  poems,  or  Milesian  fables  ?  Nay,  what  is  still  worse, 
are.  there  not  panegyrics  on  tyrants,  and  books  that  blas- 
pheme the  gods,  and  perplex  the  nalural  sense  of  right,  and 
wrpng?  I  believe  if  Eurystheus  were  to.  set  me  to  work 
agfjjn,  he  would  find  me  a  worse  task  than  any  he  imposed  ; 
he  would  make  me  read  orer  a  great  library,  and  I  would 
serve  it  as  I  did  the  Hydra,  I  would  burn  as  I  went  on,  that 
ppe  chimera  might  not  rise  irqm  another,  to  plagne  mankind. 
[  should  have  valued  myself  more  on  clearing  the  library 
jljan  on  cleansing  the  Augean  stables. 

Cad.  It  is  in  those  libraries  only,  that  the  memory  of  your 
labor  exists.  The  heroes  of  Marathon,  the  patriots  of  Ther- 
mopylae, owe  their  fame  to  me.  All  the  wise  institutions  of 
lawgivers,  and  all  the  doctrines  of  sages,  had  perished  in  the 
ear  like  a  dream  related,  if  letters  had  not  preserved  them. 
0  Hercules !  it  is  not  for  the  man  who  preferred  virtue  to 
pleasure,  to  be  an  enemy  to  the  muses.  t»et  Sardanapalus, 
£ind  the  silken  sons  of  luxury,  who  have  wasted  life  in  in- 
glorious ease,  despise  the  records  of  action,  which  bear  no 
honorable  testimony  to  their  lives  :  but  true  merit,  heroic 
virtue,  should  respect  the  sacred  source  of  lasting  honor. 

Her.  Indeed,  if  writers  employed  themselves  only  in  re- 
cording the  acts  of  great  men,  much  might  be  said  in  their 
favor.  But  why  do  they  trouble  people  with  their  medita- 
tions? Can  it  be  of  any  consequence  to  the  world  what  an 
idle  man  has  been  thinking  ? 

Yes  it  may.     The  most  important  and  extensive  ad- 


CADMUS  AND  HERCULES.  99 

5 ! 

Vantages  mankind  enjoy,  are  greatly  owing  to  men  who  have 
never  quitted  their  closets.  To  them  mankind  are  obliged 
for  the  facility  and  security  of  navigation.  The  invention  of 
Ihe  compass  has  opened  to  them  new  worlds.  The  know- 
ledge of  the  mechanical  powers,  has  enabled  them  to  con- 
struct such  wonderful  machines,  as  perform  what  the  united 
labor  of  millions,  by  the  severest  drudgery,  could  not  accom- 
plish. Agriculture,  too,  the  most  useful  of  arts,  has  received 
its  share  of  improvement  from  the  same  source.  Poetry 
likewise  is  of  excellent  use,  to  enable  the  memory  to  retain 
with  more  ease,  and  to  imprint  with  more  energy  upon  the 
heart,  precepts  and  examples  of  virtue.  From  the  little  root 
of  a  few  letters,  science  has  spread  its  branches  over  all  na- 
ture, and  raised  its  head  to  the  heavens.  Some  philosophers 
have  entered  so  far  into  the  counsels  of  Divine  Wisdom,  as 
to  explain  much  of  the  great  operations  of  nature.  The  di- 
mensions and  distances  of  the  planets,  the  causes  of  their 
revolutions,  the  paths  of  comets,  and  the  ebbing  and  flowing 
of  tides,  are  understood  and  explained.  Can  any  thing  raise 
the  glory  of  the  human  species  more,  than  to  see  a  little 
creature,  inhabiting  a  small  spot  amidst  innumerable  worlds, 
taking  a  survey  of  the  universe,  comprehending  its  arrange- 
ment, and  entering  into  the  schemes  of  that  wonderful  con- 
nexion and  correspondence  of  things  so  remote,  and  which 
it  seems  a  great  exertion  of  Omnipotence  to  have  established  1 
What  a  volume  of  wisdom,  what  a  noble  theology  do  these 
discoveries  open  to  us  ?  While  some  superior  geniuses  have 
soared  to  these  sublime  subjects,  other  sagacious  and  diligent 
minds  have  been  inquiring  into  the  most  minute  works  of  the 
Infinite  Artificer :  the  same  care,  the  same  providence,  is  ex- 
erted through  the  whole  ;  and  we  should  learn  from  it,  that, 
to  true  wisdom,  utility  and  fitness  appear  perfection,  and 
whatever  is  beneficial  is  noble. 

Her.  I  approve  of  science  as  far  as  it  is  assistant  to  action. 
[  like  the  improvement  of  navigation,  and  the  discovery  of 
the  greater  part  of  the  globe>  because  it  opens  a  wider  field 
for  the  master  spirits  of  the  world  to  bustle  in. 

Cad.  There  spoke  the  soul  of  Hercules.  But  if  learned 
men  are  to  be  esteemed  for  the  assistance  they  give  to  active 
minds  in  their  schemes,  they  are  not  less  to  be  valued  for  their 
endeavors  to  give  them  a  right  direction,  and  moderate  their 
too  great  ardor.  The  study  of  history  will  teach  the  legisla- 
tor by  what  means  states  have  become  powerful ;  and  in  w« 
private  citizen,  they  will  inculcate  the  love  of  liberty  &o4 
order.  The  writings  of  sages  point  out  a  private  patn  tri 


100  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE. 

virtue ;  and  show  that  the  best  empire  is  self-government, 
and  that  subduing  our  passions  is  the  noblest  of  conquests. 

Her.  The  true  spirit  cf  heroism  acts  by  a  generous  impulse, 
and  wants  neither  the  experience  of  history,  nor  the  doctrines 
of  philosophers  to  diiect  it.  But  do  not  arts  and  sciences 
render  men  effeminate,  luxurious,  and  inactive?  and  can  you 
deny  that  wit  and  learning  are  often  made  subservient  to  very 
bad  purposes? 

Cad.  I  will  own  that  there  are  some  natures  so  happily 
formed,  they  scarcely  want  die  assistance  of  a  master,  and 
the  rules  of  art,  to  give  them  force  or  grace  in  every  thing 
they  do.  But  these  favored  geniuses  are  few.  As  learning 
flourishes  only  where  ease,  plenty,  and  mild  government  sub- 
sist, in  so  rich  a  soil,  and  under'so  soft  a  climate,  the  weeds 
of  luxury  will  spring  up  among  the  flowers  of  art:  but  the 
spontaneous  weeds  would  grow  more  rank,  if  they  were  al- 
lowed the  undisturbed  possession  of  the  field.  Letters  keep 
a  frugal,  temperate  nation  from  growing  ferocious,  a  rich  one 
from  becoming  entirely  sensual  and  debauched.  Every  gift 
of  heaven  is  sometimes  abused  ;  but  good  sense  and  fine  ta- 
lents, by  a  natural  law,  gravitate  toward  virtue.  Accidents 
may  drive  them  out  of  their  proper  direction ;  but  such  ac- 
cidents are  an  alarming  omen,  and  of  dire  portent  to  the 
times.  For  if  virtue  cannot  keep  to  her  allegiance  those  men, 
who  in  their  hearts  confess  her  divine  right,  and  know  the 
value  of  her  laws,  on  whose  fidelity  and  obedience  can  she 
depend  ?  May  such  geniuses  never  descend  to  flatter  vice, 
encourage  folly,  or  propagate  irreligion;  but  exert  all  their 
powers  in  the  service  of  virtue,  and  celebrate  the  noble  choice 
of  those,  who  like  Hercules  preferred  her  to  pleasure  ! 

Lyttelton. 


Lord  Bacon    and  Shakspeare. 

Shakspeare.  Near  to  Castalia  there  bubbles  a  fountain  of 
petrifying  water,  wherein  the  Muses  are  wont  to  dip  what- 
ever posies  have  met  the  approval  of  Apollo ;  so  that  the 
slender  foliage,  which  originally  sprung  forth  in  the  cherish- 
ing brain  of  a  true  poet,  becomes  hardened  in  all  its  leaves, 
and  glitters  as  if  it  were  carved  out  of  rubies  and  emeralds. 
The  elements  have  afterwards  no  power  over  it. 


BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE.  101 

Bacon.  Such.  yft.  Shakspeare,  will  be  the  fortune  of  your 
own  productions. 

Shak.  Ah,  my  lord!  do  not  encourage  me  to  hope  so.  I 
am  but  a  poor  unlettered  man,  who  seizes  whatever  rude  con- 
ceits his  own  natural  vein  supplies  him  with,  upon  the  en- 
forcement of  haste  and  necessity  ;  and  therefore  I  fear  that 
such  as  are  of  deeper  studies  than  myself,  will  find  many 
flaws  in  my  handiwork  to  laugh  at,  both  now  and  hereafter. 

Bac.  He  that  can  make  the  multitude  laugh  and  weep  as 
you  do,  need  not  fear  scholars. — A  head,  naturally  fertile,  is 
worth  many  libraries,  inasmuch  as  a  tree  is  more  valuable 
ban  a  basket  of  fruit,  or  a  good  hawk  better  than  a  bag  full 
J)f  game,  or  the  little  purse,  which  a  fairy  gave  to  Fortunatus, 
more  inexhausible  than  all  the  coffers  in  the  treasury.  More 
scholarship  rni^ht  have  sharpened  your  judgment,  but  the 
particulars  whereof  a  character  is  composed,  are  better  as- 
sembled  by  force  of  imagination  than  of  judgment,  which  al- 
though it  perceive  coherences,  cannot  summon  up  materials, 
nor  melt  them  into  a  compound,  with  that  felicity  which  be- 
longs to  imagination  alone.  , 

Shak.  My  lord,  thus  far  I  know,  that  the  first  conception 
of  a  character  in  my  mind,  is  always  engendered  by  chance 
and  accident.  We  shall  suppose,  for  instance,  that  I  am  sit- 
ting in  a  tap-room,  or  standing  in  a  tennis-court.  The  beha- 
vior of  some  one  fixes  my  attention.  I  note  his  dress,  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  the  turn  of  his  countenance,  the  drinks 
he  calls  for,  his  questions  and  retorts,  the  fashion  of  his  per- 
son, and,  in  brief,  the  whole  out-goings  and  in-cornings  of  the 
man. — These  grounds  of  speculation  being  cherished  and  re- 
volved in  my  fancy,  it  becomes  straightway  possessed  with  a 
swarm  of  conclusions  and  beliefs  concerning  the  individual. 
In  walking  home,  I  picture  out  to  myself,  what  would  be  fit- 
ting for  him  to  say  or  do  upon  any  given  occasion,  and  these 
fantasies  being  recalled  at  some  after  period,  when  I  am  wri- 
ting a  play,  shape  themselves  into  divers  mannikins,  who 
are  not  long  of  being  nursed  into  life.  Thus  comes  forth 
Shallow,  and  Slender,  and  Mercutio,  and  Sir  Andrew  Ague- 
cheek. 

Bac.  These  are  characters  which  may  be  found  alive  in 
the  streets.  But  how  frame  you  such  interlocutors  as  Bru- 
tus and  Coriolanus  ? 

Shak.  By  searching  histories,  in  the  first'place,  my  lord, 
for  the  germ.  The  filling  up  afterwards  comes  rather  fromj 
feeling  than  observation.  I  turn  myself  into  a  Brutus  or  a 


102  BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE. 

Coriolanus  for  the  time  ;  and  can,  at  least  in  fancy,  partake 
sufficiently  of  the  nobleness  of  their  nature,  to  put  proper1 
words  into  their  mouths.  Observation  will  not  supply  the 
poet  with  every  thing.  He  must  have  a  stock  of  exalted  sen* 
timents  in  his  own  mind. 

Bac.  In  truth,  Mr.  Shakspeare,  you  have  observed  the 
world  so  well,  and  so  widely,,  that  I  can  scarcely  believe  you 
ever  shut  your  eyes.  I,  too,  although  much  engrossed  with 
other  studies,  am,  in  part,  an  observer  of  mankind.  Their 
dispositions,  and  the  causes  of  their  good  or  bad  fortune,  can- 
not well  be  overlooked,  even  by  the  most  devoted  questioner 
of  physical  nature.  But  note  the  difference  of  habitudes.  No 
sooner  have  I  observed  and  got  hold  of  particulars,  than  they 
are  taken  up  by  my  judgment  to  be  commented  upon,  and 
resolved  into  general  laws.  Your  imagination  keeps  them 
to  make  pictures  of.  My  judgment,  if  she  find  them  to  be 
comprehended  under  something  already  known  by  her,  lets 
them  drop,  and  forgets  them ;  for  which  reason,  a  certain 
book  of  essays,  which  I  am  writing,  will  be  small  in  bulk, 
but  I  trust  not  light  in  substance. — Thus  do  men  severally 
follow  their  inborn  dispositions. 

Shak.  Every  word  of  your  lordship's,  will  be  an  adage  to 
after  times.  For  my  part,  I  know  my  own  place,  and  aspire 
not  after  the  nbstruser  studies, — although  I  can  give  wisdom 
a  welcome  when  she  comes  in  my  way.  But  the  inborn  dis- 
positions, as  your  lordship  has  said,  must  not  be  warped  from 
their  natural  bent,  otherwise  nothing  but  sterility  will  remain 
behind.  A  leg  cannot  be  changed  into  an  arm.  Among  stage- 
players,  our  first  object  is  to  exercise  a  new  candidate,  until 
we  discover  where  his  vein  lies. 

Bac.  I  am  told  that  you  do  not  invent  the  plots  of  your 
own  plays,  but  generally  borrow  them  from  some  common 
book  of  stories,  such  as  Bocaccio's  Decameron,  or  Cynthio's, 
Novels.  That  practice  must  save  a  great  expenditure  of' 
thought  and  contrivance. 

Sftak.  It  does,  my  lord.  I  lack  patience  to  invent  the 
whole  from  the  foundation. 

'Bac.  If  I  guess  aright,  there  is  nothing  so  hard  and  trouble- 
some, as  the  invention  of  Coherent  incidents;  and  yet,  me- 
thinks,  after  it  is  accomplished,  it  does  not  show  so  high  a 
strain  of  wit  as  that  which  paints  separate  characters  and 
objects  well.  Dexterity  wbuld  achieve  the  making  of  a  plot 
.  better  than  genius,  which  delights  not  so  much  in  tracing  a 
curious  connexion  amons^  events,  as  in  adorning  a  fantasy 
with  bright  colors,  an,d  eking  it  out  with  suitable  appendage** 


BACON  AND  SHAKESPEARE 


Homer's  plot  hangs  but  illy  together.  It  is  indeed  no  better 
than  a  string  of  popular  fables  and  superstitions,  caught  up 
from  among  the  Greeks  ;  and  I  believe  that  those  who  in  the 
time  of  Pisistratus  collected  this  ptiem,  did  more  than  him- 
self to  digest  its  particulars.  His  praise  must  therefore  be 
found  in  this,  that  he  reconceivcd,  amplified)  and  set  forth, 
\vhat  was  dimly  and  poorly  conceived  by  common  men. 

S/iak.  My  knowledge  of  the  tongues  is  but  small;  on  Which 
account  I  have  read  ancient  authors  mostly  at  second  hand. 
I  remember,  when  I  first  came  to  London,  and  began  to  be  a 
hanger-on  at  the  theaters,  a  great  desire  grew  in  me  for  more 
learning  than  had  fallen  to  my  share  at  Stratford  ;  but  fickle- 
ness and  impatience,  and  the  bewilderment  catlsed  by  new 
objects,  dispersed  that  wish  into  empty  air.  Ah,  my  lord,  you 
cannot  conceive  what  a  strange  thing  it  was  for  so  impress- 
ible a  rustic,  to  find  himself  turned  loose  in  the  midst  offia- 
uei  !  My  faculties*wrought  to  such  a  degree,  that  t  was  in  a 
dream  all  day  long.  My  bent  was  not  then  toward  comedy^ 
fpr  most  objects  seemed  noble  and  of  rotten  consideration* 
The  music  at  the  theater  ravished  my  young  heart}  and  amidst 
the  goodly  company  of  spectators,  I  beheld,  afar  off)  beauties 
who  seemed  to  out-paragon  Cleopatra  of  Egypt  Some  of 
these  primitive  fooleries  were  afterwards  woveii  into  Romeo 
and.  Juliet. 

JBac.  Your  Julius  Csesar,  and  your  Richard  the  Third  please 
me  better.  From  my  youth  upward  I  have  had  a  brain  po* 
litic  and  discriminative,  and  less  prone  to  marveling  and 
dreaming,  than  to  scrutiny.  Some  part  of  my  juvenile  time 
was  spent  at  the  court  of  France,  with  our  emb^ssadorj  Sit 
Armas  Pauletj  and,  to  speak  the  truth,  although  I  was  sur* 
rounded  by  many  dames  of  high  birth  and  rare  beauty,  I  Car- 
ried oftener  Machiavelli  in  my  pocket  than  a  book  of  madri^ 
gals;  and  heeded  not  although  these  wantons  made  sport  of 
my  grave  and  scholar-like  demeanor.  When  they  would  draw 
me  forth  to  an  encounter  of  their  wit,  I  paid  them  off  with 
flatteries,  till  they  forgot  their  aim  in  thinking  of  themselves* 
Michael  Angelo  said  of  Painting,  that  she  was  jealousj  and 
required  the  whole  man  undivided.  I  was  aware  how  much 
more  truly  the  same  thing  might  be  said  of  Philosophy,  and 
therefore  cared  not  how  much  the  ruddy  complexion  of  my 
youth  was  sullied  over  the  midnight  lamp,  or  my  outwari 
bomeliness  sacrificed  to  rny  inward  advancement! 


104  NATURE  OF  ELOQUENCE. 


PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 


The  Nature  of  Eloquence. 

1.  WHEN  public  bodies  are  to  be  addressed  on  momentous 
occasions,  when  great  interests  are  at  stake,  and  strong  pas- 
sions excited,  nothing  is  valuable  in  speech,  farther  than  it 
is  connected  with  high  intellectual  and  moral  endowments. 
Clearness,  force,  and  earnestness,  are  the  qualities  which 
produce  conviction.  True  eloquence,  indeed,  does  not  con- 
sist in  speech.  It  cannot  be  brought  from  far.  Labor  and 
learning  may  toil  for  it,  but  they  will  toil  in  vain. 

Words  and  phrases  may  be  marshaled  in  every  way, 
but  they  cannot  compass  it.  It  must  exist  in  the  man,  in 
the  subject,  and  in  the  occasion.  Affected  passion,  intense 
expression,  the  pomp  of  declamation,  all  may  aspire  after  it ; 
they  cannot  reach  it.  It  comes,  if  it  come  at  all,  like  the 
outbreaking  of  a  fountain  from  the  earth,  or  the  bursting 
forth  of  volcanic  fires,  with  spontaneous,  original,  native 
force. 

The  graces  taught  in  the  schools,  the  costly  ornaments 
and  studied  contrivances  of  speech,  shock  and  disgust  men, 
when  their  own  lives,  and  the  fate  of  their  wives,  their 
children,  and  their  country,  hang  on  the  decision  of  the 
hour.  Then,  words  have  lost  their  power,  rhetoric  is  vain, 
and  all  elaborate  oratory,  contemptible.  Even  genius  itself 
then  feels  rebuked,  and  subdued,  as  in  the  presence  of  higher 
qualities. 

Then  patriotism  is  eloquent;  then  self-devotion  is  elo- 
quent. The  clear  conception,  out-running  the  deductions 
of  logic,  the  high  purpose,  the  firm  resolve,  the  dauntless 
spirit  speaking  on  the  tongue,  beaming  from  the  °ye,  inform- 
ing every  feature,  and  urging  the  whole  man  onward,  right 
onward  to  his  object, — this  is  eloquence. 


The  Perfect,  Orator. 

IMAGINE  to  yourselves  a  Demosthenes,  addressing  the 
most  illustrious  assembly  in  the  world,  upon  a  point  where- 
on the  fate  of  the  most  illustrious  of  nations  depended. — 


ELOQUENCE  OP  SHERIDAN.  105 

How  awful  such  a  meeting ! — how  vast  the  subject ! — By  the 
power  of  his  eloquence, — the  augustness  of  the  assembly  is 
los  in  the  dignity  of  the  orator;  and  the  importance  of  the 
.subject,  for  a  while,  superseded  by  the  admiration  of  his 
talents. 

With  wbat  strength  of  argument,  with  what  powers  of 
the  fancy,  with  what  emotions  of  the  heart,  does  he  assault 
and  subjugate  the  whole  man  ;  and,  at  once,  captivate  his 
reason,  his  imagination,  and  his  passions!  To  effect  this, 
must  be  the  utmost  effort  of  the  most  improved  state  of 
human  nature. — Not  a  faculty  that  he  possesses,  but  is  here 
exerted  to  its  highest  pitch.  Al'  Ais  internal  powers  are  at 
work;  all  his  external,  testify  their  energies. 

Within,  the  memory,  the  fancy,  the  judgment,. the  pas- 
sions, are  all  busy;  without,  every  muscle,  every  nerve  is 
exerted  ; — not  a  feature,  not  a  limb,  but  speaks.  The  organs 
of  the  body,  attuned  to  the  exertions  of  the  mind,  through 
the  kindred  organs  of  the  hearers,  instantaneously  vibrate 
those  energies  from  soul  to  soul.  Notwithstanding  the  di- 
versity of  minds  in  such  a  multitude,  by  the  lightning  of 
eloquence  they  are  melted  into  one  mass ; — the  whole  assem- 
bly, actuated  in  one  and  the  same  way,  become,  as  it  were, 
but  one  man,  and  have  but  one  voice. — The  universal  cry  is 
— Let  us  march  against  Philip,  let  us  fight  for  our  liberties 
— let  us  conquer  or  die.  Sheridan. 


Panegyric  on  the  -eloquence  of  Mr.  Sheridan. 

MR.  SHERIDAN  has  this  day  surprised  the  thousands^ 
who  hung  with  rapture  on  his  accents,  by  such  an  array  of 
talents,  such  an  exhibition  of  capacity,  such  a  display  of  pow- 
ers, as  are  unparalleled  in  the  annals  of  oratory; — a  display 
that  reflected  the  highest  honor  on  himself— luster  upon  let- 
ters— renown  upon  parliament — glory  upon  the  country. 

Of  all  species  of  rhetoric,  of  every  kind  of  eloquence, 
that  has  been  witnessed  or  recorded,  either  in  ancient  or  mo- 
dern times;  whatever  the  acuteness  of  the  bar,  the  dignity 
of  the  senate,  the  solidity  of  the  judgment-seat,  and  thfe 
sacred  morality  of  the  pulpits  have  hitherto  furnished 
nothing  has  equaled  what  we  have  this  day  heard  in  West- 
minster hall. 

,   No  holy  seer    of  religion,  no  statesman,  no  orator,  n<* 
8* 


106  SPEECH  OF  MR.  PITT. 


man  of  any  literary  description  whatever,  has  come  up,  in 
the  one  instance  to  the  pure  sentiments  of  morality,  or  in 
the  other,  to  that  variety  of  knowledge,  force  of  imagina- 
tion, propriety  and  vivacity  of  allusion,  beauty  and  elegance 
of  diction,  strength  and  copiousness  of  style,  pathos  and 
sublimity  of  conception,  to  which  we  this  day  listened  with 
ardor  and  admiration.  From  poetry  up  to  eloquence  there 
is  not  a  species  of  composition,  of  which  a  complete  and  per- 
fect specimen  might  not,  from  that  single  speech,  he  culled 
and  collected.  Burke. 


Extract  from  Mr.  Pitt* 8  Speech  in  the,  British  Parlia 
ment,    Jan.  20,  1775. 

WHEN  your  lordships  look  at  the  papers  transmitted  to 
us  from  America^ — when  you  consider  their  decency,  firm- 
ness and  wisdom, — you  cannot  but  respect  their  cause,  and 
wish  to  make  it  your  own.  For  myself,  1  must  declare  and 
avow,  that  in  all  my  reading  and  observation,  (and  it  has 
been  my  favorite  study  :  1  have  read  Thucydides,  and  have 
studied  and  admired  the  master-spirits  of  the  world.)  I  say 
I  must  declare,  that  for  solidity  of  reasoning,  force  of  saga- 
city, and  wisdom  of  conclusion,  under  such  a  complication  of 
difficult  circumstances,  no  nation  nor  body  of  men,  can 
stand  in  preference  to  the  General  Congress  at  Philadelphia.- 

I  trust  it  is  obvious  to  your  lordships,  that  all  attempts 
to  impose  servitude  upon  such  men, — to  establish  despotism 
over  such  a  mighty  continental  nation,  must  be  vain,  must 
be  fatal.  We  shall  be  forced,  ultimately,  to  retract ;  let  us 
retract  while  we  can,  and  not  when  we  must.  I  say  we  must 
necessarily  undo  these  violent  and  oppressive  acts.  They 
MUST  be  repealed.  You  WILL  repeal  them.  I  pledge  myself 
for  it,  that  you  will  in  the  end  repeal  them.  I  stake  my  re-, 
putation  on  it: — I  will  consent  to  be  taken  for  an  idiot,  if 
they  are  not  finally  repealed. 

Avoid,  then,  this  humiliating,  disgraceful  necessity. 
With  a  dignity  becoming  your  exalted  situation,  make  the 
first  advances  to  concord,  to  peace  and  happiness :  for  it  is 
your  true  dignity  to  act  with  prudence  and  justice.  That  you 
should  first  concede,  is  obvious  from  sound  and  rational 
policy.  Concession  comes  with  a  better  grace,  and  more  salu- 


SPEECH  OF  PATRICK  HENRY. 107 

tary  effects,  from  superior  power;  it  reconciles  superiority 
of  power  with  the  feelings  of  men  ;  and  establishes  solid 
confidence  on  the  foundation  of  affection  and  gratitude. 

Every  motive,  therefore,  of  justice  and  of  policy,  of 
dignity  an'd  of  prudence,  urges  you  to  allay  the  ferment  in 
America,  by  a  removal  of  your  troops  from  Boston, — by  a, 
repeal  of  your  acts  of  Parliament,  and  by  demonstration  of 
amicable  dispositions  towards  your  colonies.  On  the  one 
hand,  every  danger  and  every  hazard  impend,  to  deter  yotl 
from  perseverance  in  your  present  ruinous  measures.— 
Foreign  war  hanging  over  your  heads  by  a  slight  and  brittle' , 
:hread;  France  and  Spain  watching  your  conduct,  and  wait- 
ng  for  the  maturity  of  your  errors,  with  a  vigilant  eye  td 
America  and  the  temper  of  your  colonies,  mdre  than  to  their" 
jwn  concerns,  be  they  what  they  may. 

To  conclude,  rny  lords,  if  the  ministers  thiis  persevere 
»n  misadvising  and  misleading  the  King,  I  will  not  say,  that 
ihey  can  alienate  the  affections  of  his  subjects  from  his 
crown ;  but  I  will  affirm,  that  they  will  make  the  crown  nbt 
tvorth  his  wearing:  I  will  not  say  that  the  King  is  betrayed  j 
but  I  will  pronounce,  that  the  kingdom  is  undone. 


Extract  of  a  Speech  of  Patrick  Henry,  before  a  Ctinvefc 
tion  of  Delegates  for  the  several  counties  and  corpora^ 
tions  of  Virginia,  in  March,  1775. 

MR.  HENRY  rdse  with  a  majesty  unusual  td  him  in  an 
exordium,  and  with  all  that  self-possession  by  which  he  was 
so  invariably  distinguished.  "No  man,"  he  said,  "  thought 
more  highly  than  he  did,  of  the  patriotism,  as  well  as  abilities} 
of  the  very  worthy  gentlemen  who  had  just  addressed  the 
house.  But  different  men  often  saw  the  same  subject  in  dif- 
ferent lights;  and,  therefore,  he  hoped  it  would  not  be  thought 
disrespectful  to  those  gentlemen,  if,  entertaining  as  he  did. 
opinions  of  a  character  ve.ry  opposite  to  theirs,  he  should 
speak  forth  his  sentiments  freely,  and  without  reserve"; 

This  was  no  time  for  ceremony.  The  question  beforfe 
the  house  was  one  of  awful  moment  to  this  country.  For  his 
own  part,  he  considered  it  as  nothing  less  than  a  quegtidh  of 
freedom  or  slavery.  And  in  proportion  to  the  magnitude  of 
the  subject,  ought  to  be  the  freedom  of  the  debate.  It  wa"s  only 
in  this  way  that  they  could  hope  to  arrive  at  truth,  and  fulfil 
the  great  responsibility  which  they  held  to  Gda  and  their 


108  SPEECH  OF  PATRICK  HENRY. 

country.  Should  he  keep  back  his  opinions  at  such  a  time, 
through  fear  of  giving  offense,  he  should  consider  himself  as 
guilty  of  treason  toward  his  country,  and  of  an  act  of  disloy- 
alty toward  the  Majesty  of  Heaven,  which  he  revered  above 
all  earthly  kings. 

"Mr.  President,  it  is  natural  to  man  to  indulge  in  the 
illusions  of  hope.  We  are  apt  to  shut  our  eyes  against  a 
painful  truth,  arid  listen  to  the  song  of  that  syren,  till  she 
transforms  us  into  beasts.  Is  this  the  part  of  wise  men,  en- 
gaged in  a  great  and  arduous  struggle  for  liberty  ?  Were  we 
disposed  to  be  of  the  number  of  those,  who  having  eyes,  see 
not,  and  having  ears,  hear  not  the  things  which  so  nearly 
concern  their  temporal  salvation  ?  For  his  part,  whatever  an- 
guish of  spirit  it  might  cost,  he  was  willing  to  know  the 
whole  truth;  to  know  the  worst;  and  to  provide  for  it. 

"  He  had  but  one  lamp  by  which  his  feet  were  guided  j 
and  that  was,  the  lamp  of  experience.  He  knew  of  no  way 
of  judging  of  the  future  but  by  the  past.  And  judging  by  the 
past,  he  wished  to  know  Avhat  there  had  been  in  the  conduct 
of  the  British  ministry,  for  the  last  ten  years,  to  justify  those 
hopes,with  which  gentlemen  had  been  pleased  to  solace  them- 
selves and  the  house?  Is  it  that  insidious  smile  with  which 
our  petition  has  been  lately  received  ?  Trust  it  not,  sir;  it 
will  prove  a  snare  to  your  feet.  Suffer  not  yourselves  to  be 
betrayed  with  a  kiss.  Ask  yourselves  how  this  gracious  re- 
ception of  our  petition  comports  with  those  warlike  prepa- 
rations, which  cover  our  waters  and  darken  our  land. 

"Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary  to  a  work  of  love  and 
reconciliation  ?  Have  we  shown  ourselves  so  unwilling  to  be 
reconciled,  that  force  must  be  called  into  win  back  our  love? 
Let  us  not  deceive  ourselves,  sir.  These  are  the  implement;? 
of  war  and  subjugation, — the  last  argument  to  which  kings 
resort.  I  ask  gentlemen,  sir,  what  means  this  martial  array, 
if  its  purpose  be  not  to  force  us  to  submission  ?  Can  gentle- 
men assign  any  other  possible  motive  for  it?  Has  Great 
Britain  any  enemy  in  this  quarter  of  the  world,  to  call  for 
all  this  accumulation  of  navies  and  armies? 

"No,  sir,  she  has  none.  They  are  meant  for  us:  they 
can  be  meant  for  no  other.  They  are  sent  over  to  bind  and 
rivet  upon  us  those  chains,  which  the  British  ministry  have 
been  so  long  forging.  And  what  have  we  to  oppose  to  them  ? 
Shall  we  try  argument?  Sir,  we  have  been  trying  that  for 
the  last  ten  years.  Have  we  any  thing  new  to  offer  upon  the 
subject?  Nothing.  We  have  held  the  subject  up  in  every 


SPEECH  OF  PATRICK  HENRY.  109 


light  of  which  it  is  capable  ;  but  it  has  been  all  in  vain.  Shall 
we  resort  to  entreaty  and  humble  supplication?  What  terms 
shall  we  find,  which  have  not  been  already  exhausted? 

"  Let  us  not,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  deceive  ourselves  longer. 
We  have  done  every  tiling  that  could  be  done,  to  avert  the 
storm  which  is  now  coming  on.  We  have  petitioned  ;  we 
have  remonstrated  ;  we  have  supplicated;  we  have  prostra- 
ted ourselves  before  the  throne,  and  have  implored  its  inter- 
position, to  arrest  the  tyrannical  hands  of  the  ministry  and 
parliament.  Our  petitions  have  been  slighted;  our  remon- 
strances have  produced  additional  violence  and  insult;  our 
supplications  have  been  disregarded;  and  we  have  been 
spurne'd  with  contempt,  from  the  foot  of  the  throne. 

"In  vain,  after  these  things,  may  we  indulge  the  fond 
hope  of  peace  and  reconciliation.  There  is  no  longer  any 
room  for  hope.  If  we  wish  to  be  free,— if  we  mean  to  pre- 
serve inviolate  those  inestimable  privileges  for  which  we  have 
been  so  long  contending, — if  we  mean  not  basely  to  abandon 
the  noble  struggle  in  which  we  have  been  so  long  engaged, 
and  which  we  have  pledged  ourselves  never  to  abandon,  un- 
till  the  glorious  object  of  our  contest  shall  be  obtained, — we 
must  fight! — I  repeat  it,  sir,  we  must  fight!!  An  appeal  to 
arms,  and  to  the  God  of  Hosts,  is  all  that  is  left  us! 

"  They  tell  us,  sir,  that  we  are  weak — unable  to  cope  with 
so  formidable  an  adversary.  But  when  shall  we  be  stronger? 
Will  it  be  next  week,  or  the  next  year?  Will  it  be  when  we 
ire  totally  disarmed,  and  when  a  British  guard  shall  be  sta- 
'.ioned  in  every  house?.  Shall  we  gather  strength  by  irreso- 
lution and  inaction  ?  Shall  we  acquire  the  means  of  effectual 
resistance  by  lying  supinely  on  our  backs,  and  hugging  the 
delusive  phantom  of  hope  until  our  enemies  shall  have  bound 
us,  hand  and  foot  ?  Sir,  we  are  not  weak,  if  we  make  a  pro- 
per use  of  those  means  Avhich  the  God  of  nature  has  placed 
in  our  power.  Three  millions  of  people,  armed  in  the  holy 
cause  of  liberty,  and  in  such  a  country  as  that  which  we  pos- 
sess, are  invincible  by  any  force  which  our  enemy  can  send 
against  us. 

"  Besides,  sir,  we  shall  not  fight  our  battles  alone.  There 
is  a  just  God,  who  presides  over  the  destinies  of  nations,  and 
who'  will  raise  up  friends  to  fight  our  battles  for  us.  The  bat- 
tle, sir,  is  not  to  the  strong  alone ;  it  is  to  the  vigilant,  the  ac- 
tive, the  brave.  Besides,  sir,  we  have  no  election.  If  we  were 
base  enough  to  desire  it,  it  is  now  too  late  to  retire  from  the 
contest.  There  is  no  retreat,  but  in  submission  and  slavery ! 


110  WEBSTER'S  SPEECH  ON 

Our  chains  are  forged.  Their  clanking  may  be  heard  on  the 
plains  of  Boston  !  The  war  is  inevitable  — and  let  it  come  !! 
I  repeat  it,  sir,  let  it  come  ! ! ! 

"It  is  in  vain,  sir,  to  extenuate  the  matter.  Gentlemen 
may  cry  peace — peace, — but  there  is  no  peace.  The  war  is 
actually  begun  !  The  next  gale  that  sweeps  from  the  north, 
will  bring  to  our  ears  the  clash  of  resounding  arms!  Our 
brethren  are  already  in  the  field  !  Why  stand  we  here  idle? 
What  is  it  that  gentlemen  wish?  What  would  they  have?  Id 
life  so  dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased  at  the  price 
of  chains  and  slavery  ?  Forbid  it,  Almighty  God  ! — I  know 
not  what  course  others  may  take ;  but  as  for  me,"  cried  he,- 
with  both  his  arms  extended  aloft,  his  brows  knit,  every  fea- 
ture marked  with  the  resolute  purpose  of  his  soul,  and  his 
voice  swelled  to  its  loudest  note  of  exclamation, — "give  me 
liberty,  or  give  me  death  !" 

He  took  his  seat.  No  murmur  of  applause  was  heard; 
The  effect  was  too  deep.  After  the  trance  of  a  moment,  se- 
veral members  started  from  their  seats.  The  err,  "  to  arms." 
seemed  to  quiver  on  every  lip,  and  gleam  from  every  eye! 
Richard  H.  Lee  arose  and  supported  Mr.  Henry, with  his  usual 
spirit  and  elegance.  But  his  melody  was  lost  amidst  the  agi- 
tation of  that  ocean,  which  the  master  spirit  of  the  storm  hail 
lifted  up  on  high.  That  supernatural  voice  still  sounded  in 
their  ears,  and  shivered  along  their  arteries.  They  heard,  in 
every  pause,  the  cry  of  liberty  or  death.  They  became  impa 
tient  of  speech— their  souls  were  on  fire  for  action. —  Wirt. 


Extract  of  a  Discourse  in  Commemoration  of  the  Lives 
and  Services  of  John  Adams  and  Thomas  Jefferson, 
delivered  in  Boston,  3d  August,  1826. 

IN  July,  1776,  our  controversy  with  Great  Britain  had 
passed  the  stage  of  argument.  An  appeal  had  been  made  to 
force,  and  opposing  armies  were  in  the  field.  Congress  then 
Was  to  decide,  whether  the  tie,  which  had  so  long  bound  u$ 
to  the  parent  state,  was  to  be  severed  at  once,  and  severed 
forever.  All  the  colonies  had  signified  their  resolution  td 
abide  by  this  decision,  and  the  people  looked  for  it  with  the 
most  intense  anxiety.  And  surely,  fellow-citizens,  never, 
never  were  men  called  to  a  more  important  political  delibe- 
ration. If  we  contemplate  it  from  the  point  where  they  then' 


ADAMS  AND  JEFFERSON. 111 

stood,  no  question  could  be  more  full  of  interest;  if  we  look 
at  it  now,  and  judge  of  its  importance  by  its  effects,  it  ap- 
pears in  still  greater  magnitude. 

Let  us,  men,  bring  before  us  the  assembly,  which  was 
about  to  decide  a  question  thus  big  with  the  fate  of  empire. 
Let  us  open  their  doors,  and  look  in  upon  their  deliberations. 
Let  us  survey  the  anxious  and  care-worn  countenances,  let 
us  hear  the  nrm-toned  voice  of  this  band  of  patriots.  HAN- 
COCK presides  over  the  solemn  sitting ;  and  one  of  those  not 
yet  prepared  to  pronounce  for  absolute  independence,  is  on 
the  floor,  and  is  urging  his  reasons  for  dissenting  from  the 
declaration. 

"Let  us  pause  !  l^his  step,  once  taken,  cannot  be  re- 
tracted. This  resolution,  once  passed,  will  cut  off  all  hope 
of  reconciliation.  If  success  attend  the  arms  of  England^ 
we  shall  then  be  no  longer  colonies,  with  charters,  and  with 
privileges;  these  will  be  all  forfeited  by  this  act;  and  we 
shall  be  in  the  condition  of  other  conquered  people — at  the 
mercy  of  the  conquerors. 

"  For  ourselves,  we  may  be  ready  to  run  the  hazard  j 
biit  are  we  ready  to  carry  the  country  to  that  length?  Is 
success  so  probable  as  to  justify  it  ?  Where  is  the  military, 
where  the  naval  power,  by  which  we  are  to  resist  the  whole 
strength  of  the  arm  of  England  ?— for  she  will  exert  that 
strength  to  the  utmost.  Can  we  rely  on  the  constancy  and 
perseverance  of  the  people?  or  will  they  not  act,  as  the  peo- 
ple of  other  countries  have  acted,  and,  wearied  with  a  long 
war,  submit,  in  the  end,  to  a  worse  oppression? 

"While  we  stand  on  our  old  ground,  and  insist  on  re- 
dress of  grievances,  we  know  we  are  right,  and  are  not  an- 
swerable for  consequences.  Nothing,  then,  can  be  imputable 
to  us.  But,  if  we  now  change  our  object,  carry  our  preten- 
sions farther,  and  set  up  for  absolute  independence,  we  shall 
lose  the  sympathy  of  mankind.  We  shall  no  longer  be  de- 
fending what  we  possess,  but  struggling  for  something  which 
we  never  did  possess,  and  which  we  have  solemnly  and  uni- 
formly disclaimed  all  intention  of  pursuing,  from  the  very, 
outset  of  the  troubles.  Abandoning  thus  our  old  ground,  of 
resistance  only  to  arbitrary  acts  of  oppression,  the  nations' 
will  believe  the  whole  to  have  been  mere  pretense,  and  they 
will  look  on  us  not  as  injured,  but  as  ambitious  subjects. 

"  I  shudder  before  this  responsibility.  It  will  be  on  us^ 
if,  relinquishiBg  the  ground  we  have  stood  on  so  long,  and 


112  WEBSTEIl'S  SPEECH  ON 

stood  on  so  safely,  we  now  proclaim  independence,  and  carry 
on  the  war  for  that  object,  while  these  cities  burn,  these 
pleasant  fields  whiten  and  bleach  with  thebonesof  their  own- 
ers, and  these  streams  run  blood.  It  will  be  upon  us,  it  will 
be  upon  us,  if,  failing  to  maintain  this  unseasonable  and  ill- 
judgud  declaration,  a  sterner  despotism,  maintained  by  mili- 
tary power,  shall  be  established  over  our  posterity,  when  we 
ourselves,  given  up  by  an  exhausted,  a  harassed,  a  misled 
people,  shall  have  expiated  our  rashness,  and  atoned  for  ouf 
presumption  on  the  scaffold." 

It  was  for  Mr.  Adams  to  reply  to  arguments  like  these^ 
"  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  in  the  beginning  we  aimed  not  at  in- 
dependence. But  there's  a  Divinity  Avhich  shapes  our  ends. 
The  injustice  of  England  has  driven  us  to  arms  ;  and,  blind- 
ed to  her  interest,  for  our  good  she  has  obstinately  persisted, 
till  independence  is  now  within  our  grasp.  We  have  but  to 
reach  forth  to  it,  and  it  is  ours.  Why,  then,  should  we  defer 
the  declaration?  Is  any  man  so  weak  as  now  to  hope  for  a 
reconciliation  with  England,  which  shall  leave  either  safety 
to  the  country  and  its  liberties,  or  safety  to  his  own  life,  and 
his  own  honor? 

"Are  not  you,  sir,  who  sit  in  that  chair;  is  not  he,  our 
venerable  colleague  near  you;  are  you  not  both  already  the 
proscribed  and  predestined  objects  of  punishment  and  of 
vengeance?  Cut  off  from  all  hope  of  royal  clemency,  what 
are  you,  what  can  you  be,  while  the  power  of  England  re- 
mains, but  outlaws  ?  If  we  postpone  independence,  do  we 
mean  to  carry  on,  or  to  give  up  the  war?  Do  we  mean  to 
submit  to  the  measures  of  parliament,  Boston  port-bill  and 
all?  Do  we  mean  to  submit,  and  consent  that  we  ourselves 
shall  be  ground  to  powder,  and  our  country  and  its  rights 
trodden  down  in  the  dust  ? 

"I  know  we  do  not  mean  to  submit.  We  never  shall 
submit.  Do  we  intend  to  violate  that  most  solemn  obligation 
ever  entered  into  by  men,  that  plighting,  before  God,  of  our 
sacred  honor  to  Washington,  when,  putting  him  forth  to  in- 
cur the  dangers  of  war,  as  well  as  the  political  hazards  of 
the  times,  we  promised  to  adhere  to  him,  in  every  extremity, 
with  our  fortunes,  and  our  lives? 

"I  know  there  is  not  a  man  here,  who  would  not  ra 
ther  see  a  general  conflagration  sweep  over  the  land,  or  an 
earthquake  sink  it,  than  one  jot  or  tittle  of  that  plighted  faith 
fall  to  the  ground.  For  myself,  having  twelve  months  ago,, 
in  this  place,  moved  you,  that  George  Washington  be  appoin . 


ADAMS  AND  JEFFERSON.  113 


ed  commander  of  the  forces,  raised,  or  to  be  raised,  for  de- 
fense of  American  liberty,  may  my  right  hand  forget  her  cun- 
ning, and  my  tongue  cleave 'to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  if  I 
hesitate  or  waver  in  the  support  I  give  him. 

"  The  war,  then,  must  go  on.  We  must  fight  it  through. 
And,  if  the  war  must  go  on,  why  put  off  longer  the  declara- 
tion of  independence?  That  measure  will  strengthen  us.  It 
will  give  us  character  ahroad.  The  nations  will  then  treat 
with  us,  which  they  never  can  do  while  we  acknowledge  our- 
selves subjects,  in  arms  against  our  sovereign.  Nay,  I  main- 
tain that  England  herself  will  sooner  treat  for  peace  with  us 
on  the  footing  of  independence,  than  consent,  by  repealing 
her  acts,  to  acknowledge  that  her  whole  conduct  toward  us 
has  been  a  course  of  injustice  and  oppression. 

u  Her  pride  will  be  less  wounded  by  submitting  to  that 
course  of  things  which  now  predestinates  our  independence, 
than  by  yielding  the  points  in  controversy  to  her  rebellious 
subjects.  The  former  she  would  regard  as  the  result  of  for- 
tune ;  the  latter  she  would  feel  as  her  own  deep  disgrace. — 
Why  then,  sir,  do  we  not,  as  soon  as  possible,  change  this 
from  a  civil  to  a  national  war?  And,  since  we  must  fight  it 
through,  why  not  put  ourselves  in  a  state  to  enjoy  all  the 
Denefits  of  victory,  if  we  gain  the  victory  ? 

"If  we  fail,  it  can  be  no  worse  for  us. — But  we  shall 
not  fail.  The  cause  will  raise  up  armies ;  the  cause  will  cre- 
ate navies.  The  people,  if  we  are  true  to  them,  will  carry 
us,  and  will  carry  themselves,  gloriously  through  this  strug- 
gle. I  care  not  how  fickle  other  people  have  been  found.  I 
know  the  people  of  these  colonies;  and  I  know  that  resist- 
ance to  British  aggression  is  deep  and  settled  in  their  hearts, 
and  cannot  be  eradicated.  Every  colony,  indeed,  has  ex- 
pressed its  willingness  to  follow,  if  we  but  take  the  lead. 

"  Sir,  the  declaration  will  inspire  the  people  with  in- 
creased courage.  Instead  of  a  long  and  bloody  war  for  re- 
storation of  privileges,  for  redress  of  grievances,  for  chartered 
immunities  held  under  a  British  king,  set  before  them  the 
glorious  object  of  entire  independence,  and  it  will  breathe 
into  them  anew  the  breath  of  life.  Read  this  declaration  at 
the  head  of  the  army ;  every  sword  will  be  drawn  from  its 
scabbard,  and  the  solemn  vow  uttered,  to  maintain  it  or  to 
perish  on  the  bed  of  honor. 

"  Publish  it  from  the  pulpit ;  religion  will  approve  it, 
and  the  love  of  religious  liberty  will  cling  around  it,  resolved 
to  stand  with  it,  or  fall  with  it.  Send  it  to  the  public  halls; 
proclaim  it  there ;  let  them  hear  it,  who  heard  the  first  roar 


114  PHILLIPS'  SPEECH. 

of  the  enemy's  cannon  ;  let  them  see  it,  who  saw  their  bro* 
thers  and  their  sons  fall  on  the  field  of  Bunker-Hill,  and  in 
the  streets  of  Lexington  and  Concord,-^and  the  very  walls 
will  cry  out  in  its  support.  , 

"Sir,  I  know  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs;  but  I 
see  clearly  through  this  day's  business.  Yoti  and  I,  indeed; 
may  rue  it.  We  may  not  live  to  the  time,  when  this  declara* 
tion  shall  be  made  good.  We  may  die;  diGj  colonists  ;  die; 
slaves;  die,  it  may  be,  ignominiously,  and  on  the  scaffold. 
Be  it  so.  If  it  be  the  pleasure  of  Heaven  that  my  country 
shall  require  the  poor  offering  of  my  life,  the  victim  shall  be 
ready  at  the  appointed  hour  of  sacrifice,  come  when  that  hour 
may. 

"But,  whatever  may  be  our  fate,  be  assured  that  this 
declaration  will  stand.  It  may  cost  treasure,  and  it  may  cost 
blood;  but  it  will  stand,  and.it  will  richly  compensate  for 
both.  Through  the  thick  gloom  Of  the  present,  I  see  the 
brightness  of  the  future  as  the  stin  in  heaven.  WTe  shall  make 
this  a  glorious,  an  immortal  day.  When  we  are  in  our  graves 
our  children  will  honor  it.  They  will  celebrate  it  with  thanks-^ 
giving,  with  festivity,  with  bonfires,  and  illuminations.  On 
its  annual  return,  they  will  shed  tears,  copious,  gushing  tearsj 
hot  of  subjection  and  slavery,  not  of  agony  and  distress,  but 
of  exultation,  of  gratitude,  and  of  joy.  Sir,  before  God  I  be~ 
lieve  the  hour  is  come.  My  judgment  approves  this  measure; 
and  my  whole  heart  is  in  it.  All  that  I  have  in  this  life,  I 
am  now  ready  here  to  stake  upon  it ; — sink  or  swim,  survive 
or  perish,  I  am  for  the  declaration  !"  D.  Webster. 


Extract  of  a  Speech  of  Counsellor  PHILLIPS,  at  a  public 
dinner  in  Ireland,  on  his  health  being  given,  together 
with  that  of  a  Mr.  Payne,  a  young  American,  in  1817. 

THE  mention  of  America,  sir,  has  never  failed  to  fill  me 
With  the  most  lively  emotions.  In  my  earliest  infancy, — that 
tender  season  when  impressions  at  onre  the  most  permaneni 
and  the  most  powerful,  are  likely  to  be  excited, — the  story  of 
her  then  recent  struggle  raised  a  throb  in  every  heart  that 
loved  liberty,  and  wrung  a  reluctant  tribute  even  from  dis- 
fcomfited  oppression. 

I  saw  her  spurning  alike  the  luxuries  that  would  ener- 
vate, and  the  legions  that  would  intimidate ;  dashing  from 
her  lips  the  poisoned  cup  of  European  servitude  ;  and  through 
all  the  vicissitudes  of  her  protracted  conflict,  displaying  d 


SHERIDAN  AGAINST  HASTINGS.  115 

magnanimity  that  defied  misfortune,  and  a  moderation  that 
gave  new  grace  to  victory.  It  was  the  first  vision  of  my  child- 
hood ;  it  will  descend  with  me  to  the  grave.  But  if,  as  a  man, 
L  venerate  the  mention  of  America,  what  must  be  my  feelings 
toward  her  as  an  Irishman  !  Never,  O  !  never,  while  memory 
remains,  can  Ireland  forget  the  home  of  her  emigrant,  and 
the  asylum  of  her  exile. 

No  matter  whether  their  sorrows  sprung  from  the  errors 
of  enthusiasm,  or  the  realities  of  suffering;  from  fancy  or 
infliction :  that  must  be  reserved  for  the  scrutiny  of  those, 
whom  the  lapse  of  time  shall  acquit  of  partiality.  It  is  for 
the  men  of  other  ages  to  investigate  and  record  it  5  but,  surely, 
it  is  for  the  men  of  every  age  to  hail  the  hospitality  that  re- 
ceived the  shelterless,  and  love  the  feeling  that  befriended 
the  unfortunate. 

Search  creation  round  and  where  can  you  find  a  eoun-1 
try  that  presents  so  sublime  a  view,  so  interesting  in  antici- 
pation? What  noble  institutions!  What  a  comprehensive 
policy !  What  a  wise  equalization  of  every  political  advart- 
tage !  The  oppressed  of  ail  countriesj  the  martyr  of  every 
creed,  the  innocent  victim  of  despotic  arrogance,  of  stipes 
stitious  frenzy,  may  there  find  refuge ;  his  industry  encou- 
raged, his  piety  respected,  his  ambition  animated  ;  with  no 
restraint  but  those  laws  which  are  the  same  to  all,  and  no 
distinction  but  that  which  his  merit  may  originate. 

Who  can  deny,  that  the  existence  of  such  a  country  pre- 
sents a  subject  for  human  congratulation  !  W^ho  can  deny, 
that  its  gigantic  advancement  offers  a  field  for  the  most  ra- 
tional conjecture  !  At  the  end  of  the  very  next  century,  if  she 
proceeds  as  she  seems  to  promise,  what  a  wondrous  spectacle! 
may  she  not  exhibit !  Who  shall  say  for  what  purpose  a  my- 
sterious Providence  may  not  have  designed  her  ?  Who  shall 
say,  that,  when  in  its  follies  or  its  crimes  the  old  world  may, 
have  interred  all  the  pride  of  its  power,  and  all  the  pomp  of 
its  civilization,  human  nature  may  not  find  its  destined  reno^ 
Vation  in  the  new. 


Mr.  Sheridan's  invective    against  Mr.  Hastings* 

HAD  a  stranger  at  this  time  gone  into  the  province  o/ 
pude,  ignorant  of  what  had  happened  since  the  death  of  Su- 
tah  Dowla, — th*t  man,  who  with  a  savage  heart  had  still  grea"i 


116  SHERIDAN  AGAINST  HASTINGS. 

lines  of  character,  and  who,  with  all  his  ferocity  in  war,  had 
still,  with  a  cultivating  hand,  preserved  to  his  country  the 
riches  which  it  derived  from  benignant  skies  and  a  prolific 
soil, — if  this  stranger,  ignorant  of  all  that  had  happened  in 
the  short  interval,  and  observing  the  wide  and  general  devas- 
tation, and  all  the  horrors  of  the  scene — of  plains  unclothed 
and  brown — of  vegetables  burnt  up  and  extinguished — of 
villages  depopulated  and  in  ruin — of  temples  unroofed  and 
perishing — of  reservoirs  broken  down  and  dry, — he  would 
naturally  inquire  what  war  has  thus  laid  waste  the  fertile 
/ields  of  this  once  beautiful  and  opulent  country — what  civil 
dissensions  have  happened,  thus  to  tear  asunder  and  separate 
the  happy  societies  that  once  possessed  those  villages — what 
disputed  succession — what  religious  rage  has  with  unholy 
violence  demolished  those  temples,  and  disturbed  fervent, 
but  unobtruding  piety  in  the  exercise  of  its  duties? 

What  merciless  enemy  has  thus  spread  the  horrors  of 
fire  and  sword — what  severe  visitation  of  Providence  has  dried 
up  the  fountain,  and  taken  from  the  face  of  the  earth  every 
vestige  of  verdure  ? — Or  rather,  what  monsters  have  stalked 
over  the  country,  tainting  and  poisoning,  with  pestiferous 
breath,  what  the  voracious  appetite  could  not  devour? 

To  such  questions  what  must  be  the  answer?  No  wars 
have  ravished  these  lands  and  depopulated  these  villages — no 
civil  discords  have  been  felt — no  disputed  succession — no  re- 
ligious rage — no  merciless  enemy — no  affliction  of  Provi- 
dence, which,  while  it  scourged  for  the  moment,  cut  off  the 
sources  of  resuscitation — no  voracious  and  poisoning  mon- 
sters— no,  all  this  has  been  accomplished  by  the  friendship^ 
generosity,  and  kindness,  of  the  English  nation. 

They  have  embraced  us  with  their  protecting  arms,  and 
lo!  these  are  the  fruits  of  their  alliance*  What,  then,  shall 
we  be  told  that  under  such  circumstances  the  exasperated 
feelings  of  a  whole  people,  thus  goaded  and  spurred  on  to 
clamor  and  resistance,  were  excited  by  the  poor  and  feeble 
influence  of  the  Begums  1 

When  we  hear  the  description  of  the  paroxysm,  fever, 
and  delirium,  into  which  despair  had  thrown  the  natives, 
when  on  the  banks  of  the  polluted  Ganges,  panting  for  death, 
they  tore  more  widely  open  the  lips  of  their  gaping  wounds, 
to  accelerate  their  dissolution  ;  and  while  their  blood  was 
issuing,  presented  their  ghastly  eyes  to  heaven,  breathing 
th^jr  last  and  fervent  prayer  that  the  dry  earth  might  not  be 
suffered  to  drink  their  blood,  but  that  it  might  rise  up  to  the 


BURKE'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  JUNIUS.  117 

throne  of  God,  and  rouse  the  eternal  Providence  to  avenge 
the  wrongs  of  their  country, — will  it  be  said  that  this  was 
brought  about  by  the  incantations  of  these  Begums  in  their 
secluded  Zenana?  or  that  they  could  inspire  this  enthusiasm 
and  this  despair  into  the  breasts  of  a  people  who  felt  no  grie- 
vance, and  had  suffered  no  torture?  What  motive,  then,  could 
have  such  influence  in  their  bosom? 

What  motive  !  T  hat  which  nature,  the  common  parent, 
plants  in  the  bosom  of  man,  and  which,  though  it  may  be  less 
active  m  the  Indian  than  in  the  Englishman,  is  still  conge- 
nial with,  and  makes  part  of  his  being — that  feeling  which 
tells  him  that  man  was  never  made  to  be  the  property  of  man ; 
but  that  when  through  pride  and  insolence  of  power  one  hu- 
man creature  dares  to  tyrannize  over  another,  it  is  a  power 
usurped,  and  resistance  is  a  duty — that  feeling  which  tells 
him  that  all  power  is  delegated  for  the  good,  not  for  the  in- 
jury of  the  people,  and  that  when  it  is  converted  from  the 
original  purpose  the  compact  is  broken,  and  the  right  is  to 
be  resumed — that  principal  which  tells  him  that  resistance 
to  power  usurped  is  not  merely  a  duty  which  he  owes  to  him- 
self and  to  his  neighbor,  but  a  duty  which  he  owes  to  his 
God,  in  asserting  and  maintaining  the  rank  which  he  gave 
him  in  the  creation! — to  that  common  God,  who,  where  he 
gives  the  form  of  man,  whatever  may  be  the  complexion, 
gives  also  the  feelings  and  the  rights  of  man — that  principle, 
which  neither  the  rudeness  of  ignorance  can  stifle,  nor  the 
enervation  of  refinement  extinguish! — that  principal  which 
makes  it  base  for  a  man  to  suffer  when  he  ought  to  act,  and 
which,  tending  to  preserve  to  the  species  the  original  desig- 
nations of  Providence,  spurns  at  the  arrogant  distinctions  of 
man,  and  vindicates  the  independent  qualities  of  his  race. 


Mr.  Burke1  s  description  of  Junius. 

WHERE,  then,  sir,  shall  we  look  for  the  origin  of  this 
relaxation  of  the  laws,  and  of  all  government  ?  How  comes 
this  Junius  to  have  broken  through  the  cobwebs  of  the  law, 
and  to  range  uncontrolled,  unpunished  through  the  land? 
The  myrmidons  of  the  court  have  long  been,  and  are  still 
pursuing  him  in  vain.  They  will  not  spend  their  time  upon 
me,  or  you,  or  you :  no ;  they  disdain  such  vermin  when  the 


118  BURKE'S^COMPLAINT  TO  FOX. 

mighty  boar  of  the  forest,  that  has  broken  through  all  their 
toils  is  before  them. 

But,  what  will  all  their  efforts  avail?  No  sooner  has 
he  wounded  one,  than  he  lays  down  another  dead  at  his  feet. 
For  my  part,  when  I  saw  his  attack  upon  the  king,  I  own, 
my  blood  ran  cold.  I  thought  he  had  ventured  too  far,  and 
that  there  was  an  end  06  his  triumphs;  not  that  he  had  not 
Asserted  many  truths.  Yes,  sir,  there  are  in  that  composi- 
tion many  bold  truths  by  which  a  wise  prince  might  profit 
It  was  the  rancor  and  venom  with  which  I  was  struck.  ID 
these  respects  the  Nor'Ii  Briton  is  as  much  inferior  to  him, 
as  in  strength,  wit,  and  judgment. 

But  while  I  expected  from  this  daring  flight  his  final  ruin 
and  fall,  behold  him  rising  still  higher,  and  coming  down 
souse  upon  both  houses  of  parliament.  Yes,  he  did  make 
you  bis  quarry,  and  you  still  bleed  from  the  wounds  of  his 
talors.  You  crouched,  and  still  crouch  beneath  his  rage. — 
Nor  nas  he  dreaded  the  terror  of  your  brow,  sir ;  he  has  at- 
tacked even  you,— he  has, — and  I  believe  you  have  no  reason 
to  triumph  in  the  encounter. 

In  short,  after  carrying  away  our  royal  eagle  in  his 
pounces,  and  dashing  him  against  a  rock,  he  has  laid  you 
prostrate.  Kings,  Lords,  and  Commons,  are  but  the  sport  of 
his  fury.  Were  he  a  member  of  this  house,  what  might  not 
be  expected  from  his  knowledge,  his  firmness,  and  integrity  ! 
He  would  be  easily  known  by  his  contempt  of  all  danger,  by 
his  penetration,  by  his  vigor.  Nothing  would  escape  his 
vigilance  and  activity ;  bad  ministers  could  conceal  nothing 
from  his  sagacity  ;  nor  could  promises  or  threats  induce  him 
to  conceal  any  thing  from  ne  public. 


Mr.  Burktfs  compliment  to  Mr.  Fox  in  support  of  his  India 
Bill. 

1.  AND  now,  having  done  my  duty  to  the  bill,  let  me  say  a 
word  to  the  author.  I  should  leave  him  to  his  own  noble  sen- 
timents, if  the  unworthy  and  illiberal  language  with  which 
he  had  been  treated,  beyond  all  example  of  parliamentary 
liberty,  did  not  make  a  few  words  necessary,  not  so  much  in 
justice  to  him,  as  to  my  own  feelings : — I  must  say  then,  that 
it  will  be  a  distinction  honorable  to  the  age,  that  the  rescue  of 
the  greatest  number  of  the  human  race  that  ever  were  so 
grievously  oppressed,  from  the  greatest  tyranny  that  was 
ever  exercised  ha?,  fallen  to  the  lot  of  abilities  and  disposi- 


CURRAN'S  SPEECH.  119 

lions  equal  to  the  task}  that  it  has  fallen  to  one  who  has  the 
enlargement  to  comprehend,  the  spirit  to  undertake,  and  the 
eloquence,  to  support,  so  great  a  measure  of  hazardous  bene- 
volence. 

His  spirit  is  not  owing  to  his  ignorance  of  the  state  of 
men  and  things.  He  well  knows  what  snares  are  spread 
abouf  his  path,  from  personal  animosity,  from  court  intrigues, 
and  possibly  from  popular  delusion.  But  he  has  put  to  ha- 
zard his  ease,,  his  security,  his  interest,  his  power,  even  hia 
darling  popularity,  for  the  be.nefit  of  a  people  whom  he  has 
never  seen. 

This  is  the  rpad  that  all  heroes  have  trod  before  him. 
He  is  traducecj  and  abused  'for  his  supposed  motives.  He 
will  remember  that  obloquy  is  a  necessary  ingredient  in  the 
composition  of  all  true  glory  ;  he  will  remember,  that  it  was 
not  only  in  the  Roman  customs,  but  it  is  in  the  nature  and 
constitution  of  things,  that  calumny  and  abuse  are  essential 
parts  of  triumph,  These  thoughts  will  support  a  mind  which 
only  exists  fpr  honor,  under  the  burden  of  temporary  re- 
proach. 

He  is  doing,  indeed,  a  great  good ;  such  as  rarely  falls 
*o  the  lot,  and  almost  as  rarely  coincides  with  the  desires,  of 
any  man.  J^et  him  use  his  time.  Let  him  give  the  who[e 
length  of  the  reins  to  his  benevolence.  He  is  now  on  a  great 
eminence,  where  the  eyes  of  mankind  are  turned  to  him.  He 
may  live  long,  he  may  do  much.  But  here  is  the  summit. 
He  never  can  exceed  what  he  does  this  day. 

He  has  faults;  but  they  are  faults  that — though  they 
may  m  a  small  degree  tarnish  the  luster,  and  sometimes  im- 
pede the  march  of  his  abilities — have  nothing  in  them  to 
extinguish  the  fire  of  great  virtues.  In  those  faults,  there  is 
no  mixture  of  deceit,  of  hypocrisy,  of  pride,  of  ferocity,  of 
complexional  despotism,  or  want  of  feeling  for  the  distresses 
of  mankind, 


Extract  from  Mr.  Currants  Speech,  at  the  Court  ofKir.g's 
Bench,  in  Ireland,  in  defence  of  Mr.  Jtowan,  charged 
with  having  published  a  Seditious  Libel. 

GENTLEMEN  OF  THE  JURY — When  I  consider  the  period 
at  .which  this  prosecution  is  brought  forward, — when  1  be- 
hold the  extraordinary  safeguard  of  armed  soldiers  resoited 


120  CURRAN'S  SPEECH 


to,  no  doubt  tor  the  preservation  of  peace  and  order, — when 
I  catch,  as  I  cannot  but  do,  the  throb  of  public  anxiety,  which 
beats  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  this  hall, — when  I  retiect 
on  what  may  be  the  fate  of  a  man  of  the  most  beloved  per- 
sonal character,  of  one  of  the  most  respected  families  of  our 
country,  himself  the  only  individual  of  that  family — I  may 
almost  say  of  that  country — who  can  look  to  that  possible 
fate  with  unconcern, — it  is  in  the  honest  simplicity  of  my 
heart  I  speak,  when  I  say,  that  I  never  rose  in  a  court  of  jus- 
lice  with  so  much  embarrassment  as  upon  this  occasion. 

If,  gentlemen,  I  could  entertain  a  hope  of  finding  refuge 
for  the  disconcertion  of  my  mind,  in  the  perfect  composure 
of  yours, — if  I  could  suppose  that  those  awful  vicissitudes  of 
human  events,  which  have  been  stated  or  alluded  to,  could 
leave  your  judgments  undisturbed,  and  your  hearts  at  ease, 
— I  know  I  should  form  a  most  erroneous  opinion  of  your 
character. 

But  I  entertain  no  such  chimerical  hopes  ;  I  form  no 
such  unworthy  opinions ;  I  expect  not  that  your  hearts  can 
be  more  at  ease  than  my  own ;  I  have  no  right  to  expect  it ; 
but  I  have  a  right  to  call  upon  you,  in  the  name  of  your 
country,  in  the  name  of  the  living  GOD,  of  whose  eternal  jus 
tice  you  are  now  administering  that  portion  which  dwells 
with  us  on  this  side  of  the  grave,  to  discharge  your  breasts 
is  far  as  you  are  able  of  every  bias  of  prejudice  or  passion  ; 
/hat,  if  my  client  be  guilty  of  the  offence  charged  upon  him, 
you  may  give  tranquillity  to  the  public  by  a  firm  verdict  of 
conviction;  or  if  he  be  innocent,  by  as  firm  a  verdict  of  ac- 
quittal ;  and  that  you  will  do  this  in  defiance  of  the  paltry 
artifices  and  senseless  clamors  that  have  been  resorted  to,  in 
order  to  bring  him  to  his  trial  with  anticipated  conviction. 

Gentlemen,  the  representation  of  your  people  is  the 
vital  principal  of  their  political  existence ;  without  it  they 
are  dead,  or  they  live  only  to  servitude  ;  without  it  there  are 
two  estates  acting  upon  and  against  the  third,  instead  of  act- 
ing in  co-operation  with  it ;  without  it,  if  the  people  be  op- 
pressed by  their  judges,  where  is  the  tribunal  to  which  their 
judges  can  be  amenable  ?  Without  it,  if  they  be  trampled 
upon,  and  plundered  by  a  minister,  where  is  the  tribunal  to 
which  the  offender  shall  be  amenable?  Without  it.  where  is 
the  ear  to  hear,  or  the  heart  to  feel,  or  the  hand  to  redress 
heir  sufferings  ? 

Shall  they  be  found,  let  me  ask  you,  in  the  accursed 
band  of  imps  and  minions  that  bask  in  their  disgrace,  and 


IN  DEFENCE  OF  ROWAN.  121 

• 

fatten  upon  their  spoils,  and  flourish  upon  their  ruin  ?  But 
let  me  not  put  this  to  you  as  a  merely  speculative  question. 
It  is  a  plain  question  of  fact:  rely  upon  it,  physical  man  is 
every  where  the  same;  it  is  only  the  various  operation  of 
moral  causes,  that  gives  variety  to  the  social  or  individual 
character  and  condition.  How  otherwise  happens  it,  that 
modern  slavery  looks  quietly  at  the  despot,  on  the  very  spot 
\vhere  Leonidas  expired?  The  answer  is,  Sparta  has  not 
changed  her  climate,  but  she  has  lost  that  government  which 
her  liberty  could  not  survive. 

I  call  you,  therefore,  to  the  plain  question  of  fact.  This 
paper  recommends  a  reform  in  parliament ;  I  put  that  ques- 
tion to  your  consciences  ;  do  you  think  it  needs  that  reform? 
I  put  it  boldly  and  fairly  to  you,  do  you  think  the  people  of 
Ireland  are  represented  as  they  ought  to  be  ? — Do  you  hesi- 
tate for  an  answer  ?  If  you  do.  let  me  remind  you,  that  untill 
the  last  year  three  millions  of  your  countrymen  have,  by  the 
express  letter  of  the  law,  been  excluded  from  the  reality  of 
actual,  and  even  from  the  phantom  of  virtual  representation. 
Shall  we  then  be  told  that  this  is  only  the  affirmation  of  a 
wicked  and  seditious  incendiary  ? 

If  you  do  not  feel  the  mockery  of  such  a  charge,  look  at 
your  country  ;  in  what  state  do  you  find  it  ?  Is  it  in  a  state 
of  tranquillity  and  general  satisfaction?  These  are  traces 
by  which  good  is  ever  to  be  distinguished  from  bad  govern- 
ment. Without  any  very  minute  inquiry  or  speculative  re- 
finement, do  you  feel,  that  veneration  for  the  law,  a  pious 
and  humble  attachment  to  the  constitution,  form  the  political 
morality  of  your  people?  Do  you  find  that  comfort  and 
competency  among  your  people,  which  are  always  to  be 
found  where  a  government  is  mild  and  moderate;  where 
taxes  are  imposed  by  a  body,  who  have  an  interest  in  treating 
the  poorer  orders  with  compassion,  and  preventing  the  weight 
of  taxation  from  pressing  sore  upon  them. 

Gentlemen,  I  mean  not  to  impeach  the  state  of  your 
representation;  I  am  not  saying  that  it  is  defective,  or  that 
it  ought  to  be  altered  or  amended  ;  nor  is  this  a  place  for  me 
to  say,  whether  I  think  that  three  millions  of  the  inhabitants 
of  a  country,  whose  whole  number  is  but  four,  ought  to  be 
admitted  to  any  efficient  situation  in  the  state. 

It  may  be  said,  and  truly,  that  these  are  not  question? 
for  either  of  us  directly  to  decide ;  but  you  cannot  refuse  then 
some  passing  consideration,  at  least,  when  you  remember 


122  CUKRAN'S  SPEECH 


that  on  this  subject  the  real  question  for  your  decision  is, 
whether  the  allegation  of  a  defect  in  your  constitution  is  so 
utterly  unfounded  and  fake,  that  you  can  ascribe  it  only  to 
the  malice  and  perverseness  of  a  wicked  mind,  arid  not  to 
the  innocent  mistake  of  an  ordinary  understanding:  whether 
it  rriay  not  be  mistake  ;  whether  it.  can  be  only  sedition. 

And  here,  gentlemen,  i  own  I  cannot  but  regret,  that 
one  of  our  countrymen  should  be  criminally  pursued  for  as- 
serting to  the  necessity  of  a  reform,  at  the  very  moment  when 
that  necessity  seems  admitted  by  the  parliament  itself  ;  that 
Jhis  unhappy  reform  shall  at  the  same  moment  be  a  subject 
of  legislative  discussion,  arid  criminal  prosecution.  Far  am 
1  from  imputing  any  sinister  design  to  the  virtue  or  wisdom 
pf  our  government,  but  who  can  avoid  feeling  the  deplorable 
impression  that  must  be  made  ou  the  nublic  mind,  when 
jhe  demand  for  that  reform  is  answered  by  a  criminal 
information  ? 

I  am  the  more  forcibly  impressed  by  this  considera- 
tion, when  I  reflect  that  when  this  information  \vas  first  put 
upon  the  tile,  the  subject  was  transiently  mentioned  in  the 
|Jouse  of  Commons.  Some  circumstances  retarded  the 
progress  of  the  inquiry  there,  and  the  progress  of  the  infor- 
jnation  was  equally  retarded  here.  TJie  first  day  of  this 
session,  you  all  know  that  subject  was  again  brought  forward 
in  f.|ie  House  of  Commons  ;  and,  as  if  they  had  slept  ^ogether, 
this  prosecution  was  also  revived  in  vhe  Couit  of  King's 
Bench;-— and  that  before  a  jury  la,ken  from  a  panel  partly 
composed  of  those  very  members  of  parliament,  who,  in  the 
House  of  Commons  must  debate  upon  this  subject  as  a 
measure  of  public  advantage,  which  they  are  here  called 
Upon  to  consider  as  a  public  crime. 

This  paper,  gentlemen,  insists  upon  the  necessity  of 
emancipating  the  Catholics  of  Ireland,  and  that  is  charged 
as  a  part  of  the  libel.  If  they  had  kept  this  prosecution  im- 
pending for  another  year,  how  much  would  remain  for*a  jury 
to  decide  upon,  I  should  be  at  a  loss  to  discover.  It  seems 
as  if  the  progress  of  public  reformation  was  eating  away  the 
ground  of  the  prosecution.  Since  the  commencement  o'f  the 
prosecution,  this  part  of  the  libel  has  unluckily  received  the 
sanction  of  tbe  legislature.  In  that  interval,  our  Catholic 
brethren  have  obtained  that  admission,  which  it  seems  it 
was  a  libel  to  propose  :  in  what  way  to  account  for  this,  I 
am  really  at  a  loss. 

Have  any  alarms  been  occasioned  by  the  emancipation 


IN  DEFENCE  OF  IIOWAN.  123 


of  our  Catholic  brethren  ?  Has  the  bigoted  malignity  of  any 
individuals  been  crushed  ?  Or,  has  the  ,stability  of  the 
government,  or  has  that  of  the  country  been  awakened  ?  Or, 
is  one  million  of  subjects  stronger  than  three  millions?  Do 
you  think  the  benefit  they  received  should  be  poisoned  by 
the  stings  of  vengeance?  If  you  think  so,  you  must  say  to 
them, — "you  have  demanded  your  emancipation,  and  you 
have  got  it ;  but  we  abhor  your  persons,  we  are  outraged  at 
your  success,  arid  we  will  stigmatize,  by  a  criminal  prose- 
cution, the  relief  which  you  have  obtained  from  the  voice  of 
your  country." 

I  ask  you,  gentlemen,  do  you  think,  as  honest  men, 
anxious  for  the  public  tranquillity,  conscious  that  there  are 
wounds  not  yet  completely  cicatrized,  that  you  ought  to 
speak  this  language  at  this  time,  to  men  who  are  too  much 
disposed  to  think  that  in  this  very  emancipation  they  have 
been  saved  from  their  own  parliament,  by  the  humanity  of 
their  Sovereign  ?  Or,  do  you  wish  to  prepare  them  for  the 
revocation  of  these  improvident  concessions? 

Do  you  think  it  wise  or  humane,  at  this  moment,  to 
insult  them  by  sticking  up  in  a  pillory  the  man  who  dared 
to  stand  forth  their  advocate  ?  I  put  it  to  your  oaths,  do 
you  think  that  a  blessing  of  that  kind,  that  a  victory  obtained 
by  justice  over  bigotry  and  oppression,  should  have  a  stigma 
cast  upon  At  by  an  ignominious  sentence  upon  men  bold 
and  honest  enough  to  propose  that  measure, — to  propose  the 
redeeming  of  religion  from  the  abuses  of  the  church — the 
reclaiming  of  three  millions  of  men  from  bondage,  and  giving 
liberty  to  all  who  had  a  right  to  demand  it — giving,  I  say,  in 
the  so  much  censured  words  of  this  paper,  "UNIVERSAL 
EMANCIPATION  !" 

No  matter  in  what  language  his  doom  may  have  been 
pronounced;  no  matter  what  complexion  incompatible  with, 
freedom,  an  Indian  or  an  African  sun  may  have  burnt  upon 
him;  no  matter  in  what  disastrous  battle  his  liberty  may 
have  been  cloven  down  ;  no  matter  with  what  solemnities 
he  may  have  been  devoted  upon  the  altar  of  slavery ;  the 
first  moment  he  touches  the  sacred  soil  of  Britain,  the  altar 
and  the  god  sink  together  in  the  dust ;  his  soul  walks  abroad 
in  her  own  majesty ;  his  body  swells  beyond  the  measure  of 
his  chains  that  burst  from  around  him,  and  he  stands  re- 
deemed, regenerated,  and  disenthralled,  by  the  irresistible 
Genius  of  UNIVERSAL  EMANCIPATION. 


124  CURRAN'S  SPEECH 

I  cannot  avoid  adverting  to  a  circumstance  that  distin- 
guishes the  case  of  Mr.  Rowan,  from  that  of  Mr.  Muir.  The 
severer  law  of  Scotland,  it  seems — and  happy  for  them  that 
it  should — enables  them  to  remove  from  their  sight  the  vic- 
tim of  their  infatuation.  The  more  merciful  spirit  of  our 
law  deprives  you  of  that  consolation ;  his  sufferings  must 
remain  forever  before  our  eyes,  a  continual  call  upon  your 
shame  and  your  remorse. 

But  those  sufferings  will  do  more  ;  they  will  not  rest 
satisfied  with  your  unavailing  contrition,  they  will  challenge 
the  great  and  paramount  inquest  of  society  ;  the  man  will 
be  weighed  against  the  charge,  the  witness,  and  the  sen- 
tence ;  and  impartial  justice  will  demand,  why  has  an  Irish 
jury  done  this  deed?  The  moment  he  ceases  to  be  regarded 
as  a  criminal,  he  becomes  of  necessity  an  accuser ;  and  let 
me  ask  you,  what  can  your  most  zealous  defenders  be  pre- 
pared to  answer  to  such  a  charge  ? 

When  your  sentence  shall  have  sent  him  forth  to  that 
stage  which  guilt  alone  can  render  infamous;  let  me  tell 
you,  he  will  not  be  like  a  little  statue  upon  a  mighty  pedes- 
tal, diminishing  by  elevation  ;  but  he  will  stand  a  striking 
and  imposing  object  upon  a  monument,  which,  if  it  do  not — 
and  it  cannot — record  the  atrocity  of  his  crime,  must  record 
the  atrocity  of  his  conviction.  Upon  this  subject,  therefore, 
credit  me  when  I  say,  that  I  am  still  more  anxioas  for  you, 
than  I  can  possibly  be  for  him. 

I  cannot  but  feel  the  peculiarity  of  your  situation. — 
Not  the  jury  of  his  own  choice,  which  the  law  of  England 
allows,  but  which  ours  refuses ;  collected  in  that  box  by  a 
person,  certainly  no  friend  to  Mr.  Rowan,  certainly  not  very 
deeply  interested  in  giving  him  a  very  impartial  jury.  Feel- 
ing this,  as  I  am  persuaded  you  do,  y6u  cannot  be  surprised 
— however  you  may  be  distressed — at  the  mournful  pre- 
sage, with  which  an  anxious  public  is  led  to  fear  the  worst 
from  your  possible  determination. 

But  I  will  not,  for  the  justice  and  honor  of  our  com- 
mon country,  suffer  my  mind  to  be  borne  away  by  such  me- 
lancholy anticipation.  I  will  not  relinquish  the  confidence 
that  this  day  will  be  the  period  of  his  sufferings;  and,  how- 
ever mercilessly  he  has  been  hitherto  pursued,  that  your 
verdict  will  send  him  home  to  the  arms  of  his  family,  and 
the  wishes  of  his  country.  But  if — which  heaven  forbid — it 
hath  still  been  unfortunately  determined,  that  because  he  has 
not  bent  to  power  and  authority — because  he  would  not  bow 


WIRT'S  EULOGY.  125 


down  before  the  golden  calf  and  worship  it — he  is  to  be 
bound  and  cast  into  the  furnace  ;  I  do  trust  in  God  that  there 
is  a  redeeming  spirit  in  the  constitution,  which  will  be  seen 
to  walk  with  the  sufferer  through  the  flames,  and  to  preserve 
Uim  unhurt  by  the  conflagration. 


Extract  from  Mr.  Wirfs  Eulogy  on  Thomas  Jefferson  and 
John  Adams,  both  of  whom  died  upon  the  same  day,  July 
4th,  1828,Jifly  years  from  the  adoption  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence : — pronounced  at  Washington,  Oct. 
Wth,  182G. 

THE  scenes  which  have  been  lately  passing  in  our 
country,  and  of  which  this  meeting  is  a  continuance,  are  full 
of  moral  instruction.  They  hold  up  to  the  world  a  lesson  ol 
wisdom  by  which  all  may  profit,  if  Heaven  shall  grant  them 
the  discretion  to  turn  it  to  its  use.  The  spectacle,  in  all  its 
parts,  has  indeed  been  most  solemn  and  impressive;  and 
though  the  first  impulse  be  now  past,  the  time  has  not  yet 
come,  and  never  will  come,  when  we  can  contemplate  it 
without  renewed  emotion. 

In  the  structure  of  their  characters;  in  the  course  of 
their  action;  in  the  striking  coincidences  which  marked 
their  high  career;  in  the  lives  and  in  the  deaths  of  the  illus- 
trious men,  whose  virtues  and  services  we  have  met  to  com- 
memorate—and  in  that  voice  of  admiration  and  gratitude 
which  has  since  burst,  with  one  accord,  from  the  twelve 
millions  of  freemen  who  people  these  United  States  ;^there 
is  amoral  sublimity  which  overwhelms  the  mind,  and  hushes 
all  its  powers  into  silent  amazement ! 

The  European,  who  should  have  heard  the  sound 
without  pprehending  the  cause,  would  be  apt  to  inquire, 
"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this'? — what  had  these  men 
done  to  elicit  this  unanimous  and  splendid  acclamation  ? 
Why  has  the  whole  American  nation  risen  up,  as  one  man, 
to  do  them  honor,  and  offer  to  them  this  enthusiastic  homage 
of  the  heart? 

Were  they  mighty  warriors,  and  was  the  peal  that  we 
have  heard  the  shout  of  victory  ?  Were  they  great  com- 
manders, returning  from  their  distant  conquests,  surrounded 
with  the  spoils  of  war,  and  was  this  the  sound  of  their  trium- 
phal procession  ?  Were  they  covered  with  martial  glory  in 
kny  form,  and  was  this  "  the  noisy  wave  of  the  multitudes, 


126  WIRT'S  EULOGY  ON 

rolling  back  at  their  approach  ?"  INoihing  of  all  this  :  No  j 
they  were  peaceful  and  aged  patriots,  who,  having  served 
their  country  together  through  their  long  and  useful  lives,  had 
now  sunk  together  to  the  tomb. 

They  had  not  fought  battles;  but  they  had  formed  and 
moved  the  great  machinery,  of  which  battles  were  only  a 
small,  and  comparatively  trivial  consequence.  They  had  not 
commanded  armies;  hut  they  had  commanded  the  master 
springs  of  the  nation,  on  which  all  its  great  political,  as  well 
as  military  movements  depended.  By  the  wisdom  and 
2nergy  of  their  counsels,  and  by  the  potent  mastery  of  their 
spirits,  they  had  contributed  pre-eminently  to  produce  a 
mighty  Revolution,  which  has  changed  the  aspect  of  the 
world. 

A  Revolution  which,  in  one  half  of  that  world  has 
already  restored  man  to  his  "  lon^-lost  liberty,"  and  govern- 
ment to  its  only  legitimate  object,  the  happiness  of  the 
People  ;  and  on  the  other  hemisphere  has  thrown  a  light  so 
strong,  that  even  the  darkness  of  despotism  is  beginning  to 
recede.  Compared  with  the  solid  glory  of  an  achievement 
like  this,  what  are  battles,  and  what  the  pomp  of  war,  but 
the  poor  and  fleeting  pageants  of  a  theater?  What  were 
the  selfish  and  petty  strides  of  Alexander,  to  conquer  a  little 
section  of  the  savage  world,  compared  with  this  generous, 
this  magnificent  advance  toward  the  emancipation  of  the 
entire  world! 

And  this,  be  it  remembered,  has  been  the  fruit  of  intel- 
lectual exertion  : — the  triumph  of  mind  !  What  a  proud  tes- 
timony does  it  bear  to  the  character  of  our  nation,  that  they 
are  able  to  make  a  proper  estimate  of  services  like  these ! — 
That  while  in  other  countries,  the  senseless  mob  fall  down 
in  stupid  admiration  before  the  bloody  wheels  of  the  con- 
queror,— even  of  the  conqueror  by  accident, — in  this,  our 
People  rise  with  one  accord,  to  pay  their  homage  to  intellect 
and  virtue! 

What  a  cheering  pledge  does  it  give  of  the  stability  of 
our  institutions,  that,  while  abroad  the  yet  benighted  multi- 
tude are  prostrating  themselves  before  the  idols  which  their 
own  hands  have  fashioned  into  Kings,  here,  in  this  land  of 
the  free,  our  people  are  every  where  starting  up  with  one 
impulse,  to  follow,  with  their  acclamations,  the  ascending 
spirits  of  the  great  Fathers  of  the  Republic  ! 

This  is  a  spectacle  of  which  we  may  be  permitted  to  be 
proud.  It  honors  our  country  no  less  than  the  ill  astrioua 


JEFFERSON  AND  ADAMS.  127 

tiead.  Arid  could  those  great  patriots  speak  to  us  from  the 
tomb,  they  would  tell  us,  that  they  have  more  pleasure  in 
the  testimony  which  these  honors  hear  to  the  character  of 
their  country,  than  in  that  which  they  bear  to  their  indi- 
vidual services. 

They  now  see  as  they  were  seen  while  in  the  body, 
and  know  the  nature  of  the  feeling  from  which  these  honors 
flow.  It  is  love  for  love.  It  is  the  gratitude  of  an  enlightened 
nation  to  the  noblest  order  of  benefactors.  It  is  the  only 
glory  worth  the  aspiration  of  a  generous  spirit.  Who  would 
not  prefer  thi^living  tomb  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen, 
to  the  proudest  mausoleum  that  the  genius  of  sculpture  could 
erect! 

Man  has  been  said  to  be  the  creatiire  of  accidental  posi- 
tion. The  cast  of  his  character  has  been  thought  to  dependj 
materially,  on  the  age,  the  country,  and  tile  circumstances  in 
which  he  has  lived.  To  a  considerable  extent,  the  remark  is 
no  doubt  true.  Cromwell,  had  he  been  born  iri  a  republic, 
might  have  been  "guiltless  of  his  country^s  blood ;"  arid, 
but  for  those  civil  commotions  which  had  wrought  his  great 
mind  into  tempest,  even  Milton  might  have  rested  "mute 
and  inglorious." 

The  occasion  is  doubtless  necessary  to  develop  the 
talent,  whatsoever  it  may  be;  but  the  talent  must  exist,  in 
embryo  at  least,  or  no  occasion  can  quicken  it  into  life.  And 
it  must  exist,  too,  under  the  check  of  strong  virtues;  of  the 
same  occasion  that  quickens  it  into  life,  will  be  extremely  apt 
to  urge  it  on  to  crime.  The  hero  who  finished  his  career  at 
St.  Helena,  extraordinary  as  he  was,  is  a  far  more  common 
character  in  the  history  of  the  world,  than  he  who  sleeps  in 
our  neighborhood,  embalmed  in  his  country's  tears; — or  than 
those  whom  we  have  now  met  to  mourn  and  to  honor. 

Jefferson  and  Adams  were  great  men  by  nature.  Not 
great  and  eccentric  minds  "  shot  madly  from  their  spheres'* 
to  affright  the  world,  and  scatter  pestilence  in  their  course; 
but  minds,  whose  strong  and  steady  light,  restrained  within 
their  proper  orbits  by  the  happy  poise  of  their  characters, 
came  to  cheer  and  gladden  a  world  that  had  been  buried  for 
ages  in  political  night.  They  were  heaven-called  avengers 
oif  degraded  man.  They  came  to  lift  him  to  the  station  for 
which  God  had  formed  him,  and  put  to  flight  those  idiot  sU- 
pers-titions  with  which  tyrants  had  contrived  to  enthrajl  hie 
reason  artd  his  liberty. 


128  WEBSTER'S  ADDRESS  AT 

Aud  that  being  who  had  sent  them  upon  this  mission, 
had  fitted  them  pre-eminently  for  his  glorious  work.  He 
rilled  their  hearts  with  a  love  of  country,  which  burned 
strong  within  them,  even  in  death..  He  gave  them  a  power 
of  understanding  which  no  sophistry  could  baffle,  no  art 
elude;  and  a  moral  heroism  which  no  dangers  could  appall. 
Careless  of  themselves,  reckless  of  all  personal  consequen- 
ces, trampling  under  foot  that  petty  ambition  of  office  and 
nonor,  which  constitutes  the  master-passion  of  little  minds, 
they  bent  all  their  mighty  powers  to  the  task  for  which  they 
nad  been  delegated — the  freedom  of  their  beloved  country, 
and  the  restoration  of  fallen  man.  • 

They  felt  that  they  were  Apostles  of  human  liberty; 
and  well  did  they  fulfil  their  high  commissions — They  rest- 
ed not  until  they  had  accomplished  their  work  at  home, 
and  given  such  an  impulse  to  the  great  ocean  of  mind,  that 
they  saw  the  waves  rolling  on  the  farthest  shore  before  they 
were  called  to  their  reward:  and  then  left  the  world,  hand  in 
aand,  exulting,  as  they  rose,  in  the  success  of  their  labors. 


Extract  from  an  Address  at  the  laying  of  the    Corner 
Stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument,  MLh  June,  1825. 

THE  great  event  in  the  history  of  the  continent  which 
we  are  now  met  here  to  commemorate, — that  prodigy  of 
modern  times,  at  once  the  wonder  and  blessingof  the  world, 
's  the  American  revolution.  In  a  day  of  extraordinary  pros- 
perity and  happiness!  of  high  national  honor,  distinction,  and 
power,  we  are  brought  together  in  this  place,  by  our  love  of 
country,  by  our  admiration  of  exalted  character,  by  our  gra- 
titude for  signal  services  and  patriotic  devotion. 

And  while  we  are  enjoying  all  the  blessings  of  our  con- 
dition, and  looking  abroad  on  the  brightened  prospects  of  the 
world,  we  hold  still  among  us  some  of  those  who  were  active 
agents  in  the  scenes  of  1775,  and  who  are  now  here,  from 
every  quarter  of  New  England,  to  visit,  once  more,  and  under 
circumstances  so  affecting, — I  had  almost  said  so  over- 
whelming,— this  renowned  theater  of  their  courage  and  pa 
triotisra. 

Venerable  men  !  you  have  come  down  to  us  from  a  for 

iner  generation.     Heaven  has  bounteously  lengthened  out 

o^    lives,  that  you  might  behold  this  joyous  day.*'    You  are 

now  nere  where  you  stood  fifty  years  ago  this  very  hour, 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  129 

with  your  brothers  and  your  neighbors,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
in  the  strife  for  your  country.  Behold,  how  altered !  The 
same  heavens  are  indeed  over  your  heads;  the  same  ocean 
rolls  at  your  feet;— but  all  else  how  changed! 

You  hear  now  no  roar  of  hostile  cannon. — you  see  no 
mixed  volumes  of  smoke  and  flame  rising  from  burning 
Charlestown.  The  ground  strowed  with  the  dead  and  the 
dying;  the  impetuous  charge;  the  steady  and  successful  re- 
pulse; the  loud  call  to  repeated  assault;  the  summoning  of 
all  that  is  manly  to  repeated  resistance;  a  thousand  bosoms 
freely  and  fearlessly  bared  in  an  instant  to  whatever  of  terror 
there  may  be  in  war  and  death  ;  all  these  you  have  witnessed, 
but  you  witness  them  no  more. 

All  is  peace.  The  heights  of  yonder  metropolis,  its 
towers  and  roofs  which  you  then  saw  filled  with  wives,  and 
children, and  countrymen,  in  distress  and  terror,  and  looking 
with  unutterable  emotions  for  the  issue  of  the  combat,  have 
presented  you  to-day  with  the  sight  of  its  whole  happy  popu- 
lation, come  out  to  welcome  and  greet  you  with  a  universal 
jubilee.  Yonder  proud  ships,  by  a  felicity  of  position  ap- 
propriately lying  at  the  foot  of  this  mount,  and  seeming 
fondly  to  cling  around  it,  are  not  means  of  annoyance  to 
you,  but  your  country's  own  means  of  distinction  and  de- 
fense. 

All  is  peace ;  and  God  has  granted  you  this  sight  of 
your  country's  happiness,  ere  you  slumber  in  the  grave  for 
ever.  He  has  allowed  you  to  behold  and  to  partake  the  re- 
ward of  your  patriotic  toils ;  and  he  has  allowed  us,  your 
sons  and  countrymen,  to  meet  you  here,  and,  in  the  name  of 
the  present  generation,  in  the  name  of  your  country,  in  the 
name  of  liberty,  to  thank  you. 

But  the  scene  amidst  which  we  stand,  does  not  permit 
us  to  confine  our  thoughts  or  our  sympathies  to  those  fearless 
spirits  who  hazarded  or  lost  their  lives  on  this  consecrated 
spot.  We  have  the  happiness  to  rejoice  here  in  the  presence 
of  a  most  worthy  representation  of  the  survivors  of  the 
whole  revolutionary  army. 

Veterans!  You  are  the  remnant  of  many  a  well-fought 
field.  You  bring  with  you  marks  of  honor  from  Trenton 
and  Monmouth,  from  Yorktown,  Camden,  Bennington,  and 
Saratoga.  VETERANS  OF  HALF  A  CENTURY!  when  in  your 
youthful  days  you  put  every  thing  at  hazard  in'  your  coun- 
try's cause,  good  as  that  cause  was,  and  sanguine  as  youth 
is,  still  your  fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch  onward  to  an  hour 

9* 

" 


130  SPEECH  OF  TITUS  QUINCTIUS 


like  this!  At  a  period  to  which  you  could  not  reasonably 
have  expected  to  arrive  ;  at  a  moment  of  national  prosperity, 
such  as  you  could  never  have  foreseen ;  you  are  now  met 
here  to  enjoy  the  fellowship  of  old  soldiers,  and  to  receive 
the  overflowings  of  a  universal  gratitude. 

But  your  agitated  countenances,  and  your  heaving 
breasts  inform  me,  that  even  this  is  not  an  unmixed  joy.  I 
perceive  that  a  tumult  of  contending  feelings  rushes  upon 
you.  The  images  of  the  dead,  as  well  as  the  persons  of  the 
living,  throng  to  your  embraces.  The  scene  overwhelms 
you,  and  I  turn  from  it.  May  the  father  of  all  mercies  bless 
them,  and  smile  upon  your  declining  years. 

And  when  you  shall  here  have  exchanged  your  em- 
braces ;  when  you  shall  once  more  have  pressed  the  hands 
which  have  been  so  often  extended  to  give  succor  in  adver- 
sity, or  grasped  in  the  exultation  of  victory;  then  look  abroad 
into  this  lovely  land,  which  your  young  valour  defended,  and 
mark  the  happiness  with  which  it  is  filled ;  yea,  look  abroad 
into  the  whole  earth,  and  see  what  a  name  you  have  contri- 
buted to  give  to  your  country,  and  what  a  praise  you  have 
added  to  freedom;  and  then  rejoice  in  the  sympathy  and 
gratitude,  which  beam  upon  your  last  days  from  the  im- 
proved condition  of  mankind. 


Speech  of  Titus  Quincilus  to  the  Romans. 

THOUGH  I  am  not  conscious,  O  Romans,  of  any  crime  by 
me  committed,  it  is  yet  with  the  utmost  shame  and  confusion 
that  I  appear  in  your  assembly.  You  have  seen  it — posterity 
will  know  it! — in  the  fourth  consulship  of  Titus  Quinctius 
the  ^Equi  and  Volsi  (scarce  a  match  for  the  Hernici  alone) 
came  in  arms  to  the  very  gates  of  Rome, — and  went  away 
unchastised ! 

The  course  of  our  manners,  indeed,  and  the  state  of  oui 
affairs  have  long  been  such,  that  I  had  no  reason  to  presage 
much  good  ;  but,  could  I  have  imagined  that  so  great  an  ig- 
nominy would  have  befallen  me  this  year,  I  would,  by  banish 
ment  or  death,  (if  all  other  means  had  failed,)  have  avoided 
the  station  I  am  now  in.  What !  might  Rome  then  have  been 
faken.  if  these  men  who  were  at  our  gates  had  not  wanted 
courage  for  the  attempt? — Rome  taken  whilst  I  was  consul ! 
Of  honors  I  had  sufficient — of  life  enough — more  than  enough 
—I  should  have  died  in  my  third  consulate. 


TO  THE  ROMANS.  131 


But  who  are  they  that  our  dastardly  enemies  thus  de- 
spise?— the  consuls,  or  you,  Romans?  If  we  are  in  fault, 
depose  us,  or  punish  us  yet  more  severely.  If  you  are  to 
blame — may  neither  Gods  nor  men  punish  your  faults!  only 
may  you  repent! — No,  Romans,  the  confidence  of  your  ene- 
mies is  not  owing  to  their  courage,  or  to  their  belief  of  your 
cowardice :  they  have  been  too  often  vanquished  not  to  know 
both  themselves  and  you. 

Discord,  discord  is  the  ruin  of  this  city !  The  eternal 
disputes  between  the  senate  and  the  people,  are  the  sole  cause 
of  our  misfortunes.  While  we  set  no  bounds  to  our  dominion, 
nor  you  to  your  liberty  ;  while  You  impatiently  endure  Pa* 
trician  magistrates,  and  we  Plebeian  ;  our  enemies  take  heart, 
grow  elated  and  presumptuous.  In  the  name  of  the  immor- 
tal gods,  what  is  it,  Romans,  you  would  have?  You  desired 
Tribunes;  — for  the  sake  of  peace,  we  granted  them.  You 
were  eager  to  have  Decemvirs  ;  — we  consented  to  their  cre- 
ation. You  grew  weary  of  these  decemvirs  j— we  obliged 
them  to  abdicate. 

Your  hatred  pursued  them  when  reduced  to  private  men  \ 
and  we  suffered  you  to  put  to  death,  or  banish,  Patricians  ot 
the  first  rank  in  the  republic.  You  insisted  upon  the  restora- 
tion of  the  Tnbuneship  ; — we  yielded  ;  we  quietly  saw  Con- 
suls of  your  own  faction  elected.  You  have  the  protection  of 
your  tribunes,  and  the  privilege  of  appeal;  the  Patricians 
are  subjected  to  the  decrees  of  the  Commons.  Under  pre- 
tense of  equal  and  impartial  laws,  you  have  invaded  our 
rights;  and  we  have  suffered  it. and  we  still  suffer  it.  When 
shall  we  see  an  end  of  discord  ?  When  shall  we  hate  one  in- 
terest, and  one  common  country  ?  Victorious  and  triumphant, 
you  show  less  temper  than  we  under  defeat.  When  you  are 
to  contend  with  us,  yon  can  seize  the  Aventine  hill — you  can 
possess  yourselves  of  the  Mons  Sacer. 

The  enemy  is  at  our  gates, — the  /Esquiline  is  near  being 
taken, — and  nobody  stirs  to  hinder  it!  But  against  us  you  are1 
valiant;  against  us  you  can  arm  with  diligence.  Come  on, 
then,  besiege  the  senate-house,  make  a  camp  of  the  forum,  fill 
the  jails  with  our  chief  nobles,  and  when  you  have  achievefl 
these  glorious  exploits,  then,  at  last,  sally  out  at  the  ^Esqui- 
line gate  with  the  same  fierce  spirits  against  the  enemy. 

Does  your  resolution  fail  you  for  this?  Go,  then,  and 
behold  from  our  walls  your  lands  ravaged,  your  houses  plun- 


132  JUDGE  STORY'S 


tiered  and  in  flames,  the  whole  country  laid  waste  with  fire 
and  sword.  Have  you  any  thing  here  to  repair  these  damages? 
Will  the  tribunes  make  up  your  losses  to  you  ?  They  will 
give  you  words  as  many  as  you  please;  bring  impeachments 
in  abundance  against  the  prime  men  of  the  state:  heap  laws 
upon  laws  ;  assemblies  you  shall  have  without  end  ; — but  will 
any  of  you  return  the  richer  from  those  assemblies? 

Extinguish,  O  Romans  !  these  fatal  divisions ;  generously 
break  this  cursed  enchantment,  which  keeps  you  buried  in  a 
scandalous  inaction.  Open  your  eyes,  and  consider  the  ma- 
nagement of  those  ambitious  men,  who,  to  make  themselves 
powerful  in  their  party,  study  nothing  but  how  they  may 
foment  divisions  in  the  commonwealth. — If  you  can  but 
summon  up  your  former  courage,  if  you  will  now  march 
out  of  Rome  with  your  consuls,  there  is  no  punishment  you 
can  inflict  which  1  will  not  submit  to,  if  I  do  not  in  a  few 
days  drive  those  pillagers  out  of  our  territory.  This  terror 
of  war,  with  which  you  seem  so  grievously  struck,  shall 
quickly  be  removed  from  Rome  to  Uieir  own  cities. 


Extract  from. TV 'Ige  Story'' s  Centennial  Address,  delivered 
at  Salem,  Mass.,  Sept.  18,  1828. 

WHEN  we  reflect  on  what  has  been,  and  is  now,  is  it  pos- 
sible not  to  feel  a  profound  sense  of  the  responsibleness  of 
this  Republic  to  all  future  nges?  What  vast  motives  press 
upon  us  for  lofty  efforts.  What  brilliant  prospects  invite  our 
enthusiasm.  What  solemn  warnings  at  once  demand  our 
vigilance,  and  moderate  our  confidence. 

The  old  world  has  already  revealed  to  us  in  its  unsealed 
books,  the  beginning  and  end  of  all  its  own  marvelous  strug- 
gles in  the  cause  of  liberty.  Greece,  lovely  Greece,  "the  land 
of  scholars  and  the  nurse  of  arms,"  where  sister  republics  in 
fair  processions  chanted  the  praises  of  liberty  and  the  gods; 
where  and  what  is  she?  For  two  thousand  years  the  op- 
pressor has  bound  her  to  the  earth.  Her  arts  are  no  more. 
The  last  sad  relics  of  her  temples  are  but  the  barracks  of  a 
ruthless  soldiery  ;  the  fragments  of  her  columns  arid  her  pa- 
laces are  in  the  dust,  yet  beautiful  in  ruin. 

She  fell  not  when  the  mighty  were  upon  her.  Her  sons 
were  united  at  Thermopylae  and  Marathon;  and  the  tide  of 
her  triumph  rolled  back  upon  the  Hellespont.  She  was  con- 
quered by  her  own  factions.  She  fell  by  the  hands  of  her  own 


CENTENNIAL  ADDRESS.  133 

people.  The  man  of  Macedonia  did  not  the  work  of  destruc- 
tion. It  was  already  done  by  her  own  corruption,  banish- 
ments, and  dissensions.  Rome,  republican  Rome,  whose 
eagles  glanced  in  the  rising  and  setting  sun,  where,  and  what 
is  she?  The  eternal  city  yet  remains,  proud  even  in  her 
desolation,  noble  in  her  decline,  venerable  in  the  majesty  of 
religion,  and  calm  as  in  the  composure  of  death. 

The  malaria  has  but  traveled  in  the  paths  worn  by  her 
destroyers.  More  than  eighteen  centuries  have  mourned  over 
the  loss  of  her  empire.  A  mortal  disease  was  upon  her  vitals, 
before  Caesar  had  crossed  the  Rubicon;  and  Brutus  did  not 
restore  her  health  by  the  deep  probings  of  the  senate  cham- 
ber. The  Goths  and  Vandals  and  Huns — the  swarms  of  the 
north — completed  only  what  was  already  begun  at  home. 
Romans  betrayed  Rome.  The  legions  were  bought  and 
sold  ;  but  the  people  offered  the  tribute  money. 

And  where  are  the  republics  of  modern  times,  which 
clustered  around  immortal  Italy?  Venice  and  Genoa  exist 
but  in  name.  The  Alps,  indeed,  look  down  upon  the  brave 
arid  peaceful  Swiss,  in  their  native  fastnesses;  but  the  gua- 
ranty of  their  freedom  is  in  their  weakness,  and  not  in  their 
strength.  The  mountains  are  not  easily  crossed,  and  the 
valleys  are  not  easily  retained. 

When  the  invader  comes,  he  moves  like  an  avalanche, 
carrying  destruction  in  his  path.  The  peasantry  sink  before 
him.  The  country  is  too  poor  for  plunder,  and  too  rough  for 
valuable  conquest.  Nature  presents  her  eternal  barriers  on 
every  side,  to  check  the  wantonness  of  ambition;  and  Swit- 
zerland remains  with  her  simple  institutions,  a  military  road 
to  fairer  climates,  scarcely  worth  a  permanent  possession, 
and  protected  by  the  jealousy  of  her  neighbors. 

We  stand  the  latest,  and,  if  we  fail,  probably  the  last 
experiment  of  self-government  by  the  people.  We  have  be- 
gun it  under  circumstances  of  the  most  auspicious  nature. 
We  are  in  the  vigour  of  youth.  Our  growth  has  never  been 
checked  by  the  oppressions  of  tyranny.  Our  constitutions 
have  never  been  enfeebled,  by  the  vices  or  luxuries  of  the  old 
world.  Such  as  we  are,  we  have  been  from  the  beginning; 
simple,  hardy,  intelligent,  accustomed  to  self-government 
and  self-respect. 

The  Atlantic  rolls  between  us  and  any  formidable  foe. 
Within  our  own  territory,  stretching  through  many  degrees 
of  latitude  and  longitude,  we  have  the  choice  of  many  pro- 
ducts, and  many  means  of  independence.  The  government 


134  STORY'S  ADDRESS. 

is  mild.  The  press  is  free.  Religion  is  free.  Knowledge 
reaches,  or  may  reach  every  home.  What  fairer  prospect  of 
success  could  be  presented?  What  means  more  adequate  to 
accomplish  the  sublime  end?  What  more  is  necessary, 
than  for  the  people  to  preserve  what  they  themselves  have 
created  ? 

Already  has  the  age  caught  the  spirit  of  our  institutions. 
It  has  already  ascended  the  Andes,  and  snuffed  the  breeze* 
of  both  oceans.  It  has  infused  itself  into  the  life-blood  ot 
Europe,  and  warmed  the  sunny  plains  of  France,  and  the 
low  lands  of  Holland.  It  has  touched  the  philosophy  ot 
Germany  and  the  North,  and,  moving  onward  to  the  South, 
has  opened  to  Greece  the  lessons  of  her  better  days. 

Can  it  he  that  America,  under  such  circumstances,  can 
betray  herself  ?•— that  she  is  to  be  added  to  the  catalogue  ot 
Republics,  the  inscription  of  whose  ruin  is,  "  they  were,  but 
they  are  not."  Forbid  it, my  countrymen;  forbid  it,  Heaven. 

I  call  upon  you,  fathers,  by  the  shades  of  your  ances- 
tors, by  the  dear  ashes  which  repose  in  this  precious  soil,  by 
all  you  are,  and  all  you  hope  to  be, — resist  every  project  of 
disunion, — resist  every  encroachment  upon  your  liberties, — 
resist  every  attempt  to  fetter  your  consciencies,  or  smother 
your  public  schools,  or  extinguish  your  system  of  public  in- 
struction. 

I  call  upon  you,  mothers,  by  that  which  never  fails  in 
woman, — the  love  of  your  offspring, — teach  them,  as  they 
climb  your  knees,  or  lean  on  your  bosom,  the  blessing  of 
liberty.  Swear  them  at  the  altar,  as  with  their  baptismal 
vows,  to  be  true  to  their  country,  and  never  to  forget  of  to 
forsake  her. 

I  call  upon  you,  young  men,  to  remember  whose  sons 
you  are — whose  inheritance  you  possess.  Life  can  never 
be  too  short,  which  brings  nothing  but  disgrace  and  oppres- 
sion. Death  never  comes  too  soon,  if  necessary  in  defense 
of  the  liberties  of  your  country. 

I  call  upon  you,  old  men,  for  vour  counsels,  and  your 
prayers,  and  your  benedictions.  May  not  your  gray  hairs 
go  down  in  sorrow  to  the  grave,  with  the  recollection  that 
you  have  lived  in  vain.  May  not  your  last  sun  sink  in  the 
west  upon  a  nation  of  slaves. 

No — I  read  in  the  destiny  of  my  country,  far  better 
hopes,  far  brighter  visions.  We  who  are  now  assembled 
here,  must  soon  be  gathered  to  the  congregation  of  other  days. 
The  time  for  our  departure  is  at  hand,  to  make  way  for  our 


THE  FORMATION  OF  CHARACTER.  135 

children  upon  the  theater  of  life.  May  God  speed  them  and 
theirs.  May  he  who  at  the  distance  of  another  century  shall 
stand  here  to  celebrate  this  day,  still  look  round  upon  a  free, 
happy,  and  virtuous  people.  May  he  have  reason  to  exult  as 
we  do>  May  he,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  truth,  as  Well  as 
of  poetry,  exclaim,  that  here  is  still  his  country  ; — 

"  Zealous,  yet  modest ;  Innocent,  though  free  ; 
Patient  of  toil ;  serene  amidst  alarms ; 
Inflexible  in  faith  5  invincible  in  arms." 


On  the  Formation  of  Character,  and  the  attainment  oj 
knowledge  : — Addressed  to  the  American  Youth. 

A  GOOD  name  is  in  all  cases  the  fruit  of  personal  exer- 
tion. It  is  not  inherited  from  parents ;  it  is  not  created  by  ex- 
ternal advantages ;  it  is  no  necessary  appendage  of  birth,  or 
wealth,  or  talents,  or  station ;  but  the  result  of  one's  own  en- 
deavors,-*-the  fruit  and  reward  of  good  principles,  manifest 
in  a  course  of  virtuous  and  honorable  action.  This  is  the 
more  important  to  be  remarked,  because  it  shows  that  the 
attainment  of  a  good  name,  whatever  be  your  external  cir- 
cumstances, is  entirely  within  your  power, 

No  youn£  man,  however  humble  his  birth,  or  obscure 
his  condition,  is  excluded  from  the  invaluable  boon.  He  has 
only  to  fix  his  eyes  upon  the  prize,  and  press  toward  it  in  a 
course  of  virtuous  and  useful  conduct,  and  it  is  his.  And  it 
is  interesting  to  notice  how  many  of  our  worthiest  and  best 
citizens,  have  risen  to  honor  and  usefulness  by  their  own  per- 
severing exertions.  They  are  to  be  found  in  great  numbers, 
in  each  of  the  learned  professions,  and  in  every  department 
of  business  ;  and  they  stand  forth,  bright  and  animating  ex- 
amples of  what  can  be  accomplished  by  resolution  and  effort. 

Indeed,  in  the  formation  of  character,  personal  exertion 
is  the  first,  the  second,  and  the  third  virtue.  Nothing  great 
or  excellent  can  be  acquired  without  it.  A  good  name  will 
not  come  without  being  sought.  All  the  virtues  of  which  it 
is  composed,  are  the  result  of  untiring  application  and  indus- 
try. Nothing  can  be  more  fatal  to  the  attainment  of  a  good 
character,  than  a  treacherous  confidence  in  external  advanta- 
ges. These,  if  not  seconded  by  your  own  endeavors,  will 
"  drop  you  mid-way,  or  perhaps  you  will  not  have  started, 
when  the  diligent  traveler  will  have  won  the  race." 

Thousands  of  young  men  have  been  ruined  by  relying 


THE  FORMATION  OF  CHARACTER 


for  a  good  name  on  their  honorable  parentage,  pr  inherited 
wealth,  or  the  patronage  of  friends.  Flattered  by  these  dis- 
tinctions, they  have  felt  as  if  they  might  live  without  plan 
and  without  effort, — merely  for  their  own  gratification  and 
indulgence.  No  mistake  is  more  fatal.  It  always  issues  in 
producing  an  inefficient  and  useless  character. 

On  this  account,  it  is,  that  character  and  wealth  rarely 
continue  in  the  same  family,  more  than  two  or  three  gene- 
rations. The  younger  branches,  placing  a  deceptive  confi- 
dence in  an  hereditary  character,  neglect  the  means  of  forming 
one  of  their  own,  and  often  exist  in  society  only  a  reproach 
to  the  worthy  ancestry,  whose  name  they  bear. 

In  the  formation  of  a  good  character,  it  is  of  great  im- 
portance that  the  early  part  of  life  be  improved  and  guarded, 
with  the  utmost  diligence  and  carefulness.  The  most  critical 
period  of  life  is  that  which  elapses  from  fourteen  to  twenty- 
one  years  of  age.  More  is  done  during  this  period,  to  mould 
and  settle  the  character  of  the  future  man,  than  in  all  the 
other  years  of  life. 

If  a  young  man  passes  this  season  with  pure  morals 
and  a  fair  reputation,  a  good  name  is  almost  sure  to  crown 
his  maturer  years,  and  descend  with  him  to  the  close  of  his 
days.  On  the  other  hand,  if  a  young  man  in  this  spring  sea- 
son of  life  neglects  his  mind  and  heart;  if  he  indulges  him- 
self in  vicious  courses,  and  forms  habits  of  inefficiency  and 
slothfulness,  he  experiences  a  loss  which  no  effort  can  re- 
trieve, and  brings  a  stain  upon  his  character  which  no  tears 
can  wash  away. 

Life  will  inevitably  take  much  of  its  shape  and  coloring, 
from  the  plastic  powers  that  are  now  operating.  Every 
thing,  almost,  depends  upon  giving  a  proper  direction  to  this 
outset  of  life.  The  course  now  taken  is  usually  decisive. — 
The  principles  now  adopted,  and  the  habits  now  formed, 
whether  good  or  bad,  become  a  kind  of  second  nature,  fixed 
and  permanent. 

Youthful  thoughtlessness,  I  know,  is  wont  to  regard  the 
indiscretions  and  vicious  indulgencies  of  this  period,  as  of 
very  little  importance.  But  they  have  great  influence  in 
forming  your  future  character,  and  deciding  the  estimation  in 
which  you  are  to  be  held  in  the  community.  They  are  the 
germs  of  bad- habits  ;  and  bad  habits  confirmed,  are  ruin  to 
the  character  and  the  scul.  The  errors  and  vices  of  a  young 
man,  even  when  they  do  not  ripen  into  habit,  impress  a  blot 
on  the  name  which  is  rarely  effaced.  They  are  remembered 


AND  ATTAINMENT  OF  KNOWLEDGE.  137 


in  subsequent  life;  the  public  eye  is  often  turning  back  to 
them ;  the  stigma  is  seen ;  it  cleaves  fast  to  the  character, 
and  its  unhappy  effects  are  felt  till  the  end  of  his  days. 

"  A  fair  reputation,  it  should  be  remembered,  is  a  plant, 
delicate  in  its  nature,  and  by  no  means  rapid  in  its  growth. 
It  will  not  shoot  up  in  a  night,  like  the  gourd  that  shaded 
the  prophet's  head ;  but  like  that  same  gourd,  it  may  perish 
in  a  night."  A  character  which  it  has  cost  many  years  to  esta- 
blish, is  often  destroyed  in  a  single  hour,  or  even  minute. 
Guard  then,  with  peculiar  vigilance,  this  forming,  fixing  sea- 
son of  your  existence;  and  let  the  precious  days  and  hours 
that  are'  now  passing  by  you,  be  diligently  occupied  in  acqui- 
ring those  habits  of  intelligence,  of  virtue  and  enterprise, 
which  are  so  essential  to  the  honor  and  success  of  future  life. 

To  the  formation  of  a  good  character  it  is  of  the  high- 
est importance  that  you  have  a  commanding  object  in  view, 
and  that  your  aim  in  life  be  elevated.  To  this  cause,  perhaps, 
more  than  to  any.other,  is  to  be  ascribed  the  great  difference 
which  appears  in  the  characters  of  men.  Some  start  in  life 
with  an  object  in  view,  and  are  determined  to  attain  it ;  while 
others  live  without  plan,  and  reach  not  for  the  prize  set  be- 
fore them.  The  energies  of  the  one  are  called  into  vigorous 
action,  and  they  rise  to  eminence,  while  the  others  are  left 
to  slumber  in  ignoble  ease,  and  sink  into  obscurity. 

It  is  an  old  proverb,  that  he  who  aims  at  the  sun,  to  be 
sure  will  not  reach  it,  but  his  arrow  will  fly  higher  than  if  he 
aimed  at  an  object  on  a  level  with  himself.  Just  so  in  the  for- 
mation of  character.  Set  your  standard  high  ;  and,  though 
you  may  not  reach  it,  you  can  hardly  fail  to  rise  higher  than 
if  you  aimed  at  some  inferior  excellence.  Youngmenare  not, 
in  general,  conscious  of  what  they  are  capable  of  doing. 
They  do  not  task  their  faculties,  nor  improve  their  powers, 
nor  attempt,  as  they  ought,  to  rise  to  superior  excellence. 
They  have  no  high,  commanding  object  at  which  to  aim; 
but  often  seem  to  be  passing  away  life,  without  object  and 
without  aim. 

The  consequence  is,  their  efforts  are  few  and  feeble  ; 
they  are  not  waked  up  to  any  thing  great  or  distinguished; 
and  therefore  fail  to  acquire  a  character  of  decided  worth. 
But,  my  friends,  you  may  be  whatever  you  resolve  to  be. 
Resolution  is  omnipotent.  Determine  that  you  will  be  some- 
thing in  the  world,  and  you  shall  be  something.  Aim  at  ex- 
cellence, and  excellence  will  be  attained.  This  is  the  great 
secret  of  effort  and  eminence. 


138  THE  FORMATION  OF  CHARACTER. 


The  circumstances  in  which  you  are  placed  as  the  mem- 
bers of  a  free  and  intelligent  community,  also  demand  of  you 
a  careful  improvement  of  the  means  of  knowledge  you  enjoy. 
You  live  in  an  age  of  great  mental  excitement.  The  public 
rnind  is  awake,  and  society  in  general  is  fast  rising  on  the 
scale  of  improvement.  At  the  same  time,  the  means  of 
knowledge  are  most  abundant.  They  exist  every  where 
and  in  the  richest  variety. 

Nor  were  stronger  inducements  ever  held  out  to  en- 
gage all  classes  of  people  in  the  diligent  use  of  these  means. 
Useful  talents  of  every  kind  are  in  great  demand.  The  field 
of  enterprise  is  widening  arid  spreading  around  you.  The 
road  to  wealth,  to  honor,  to  usefulness,  and  happiness,  is  open 
to  all,  and  all  who  will  may  enter  upon  it,  with  the  almost 
certain  prospect  of  success.  In  this  free  community  there 
are  no  privileged  orders.  Every  man  finds  his  level.  If  he 
has  talents  he  will  be  known  and  estimated,  and  rise  in  the 
respect  and  confidence  of  society. 

Added  to  this,  every  man  is  here  a  freeman.  He  has  a 
voice,  in  the  election  of  rulers,  in  making  and  executing  the 
laws,  and  may  be  called  to  fill  important  places  of  honor  and 
trust,  in  the  community  of  which  he  is  a  member.  What  then. 
is  the  duty  of  persons  in  these  circumstances?  Are  they  not 
called  to  cultivate  their  minds,  to  improve  their  talents,  and 
acquire  the  knowledge  which  is  necessary  to  enable  them  to 
act,  with  honor  and  usefulness,  that  part  assigned  them  on 
the  stage  of  life? 

Can  any  expect  to  maintain  a  respectable  standing  in 
society,  if,  while  others  are  rising  around  them,  they  neglect 
the  means  to  rise  with  them?  If  any  please  thus  to  neglect 
fieir  opportunities  for  acquiring  knowledge,  they  can  have 
their  choice;  but  let  them  at  the  same  time  make  up  their 
minds  to  exist  as  mere  cyphers  in  society;  to  be  hewers  of 
wood  and  drawers  of  water;  to  float  down  as  leaves  upon 
the  bosom  of  the  stream,  unknown,  unregarded,  soon  to  be 
forgotten  as  if  they  had  never  been. 

A  diligent  use  of  the  means  of  knowledge,  accords  well 
with  yeur  nature  as  rational  and  immortal  beings.  God  has 
given  you  minds  which  are  capable  of  indefinite  improve- 
ment; he  has  placed  you  in  circumstances  peculiarly  favor- 
able for  making  such  improvement ;  and  to  inspire  you  with 
diligence  in  mounting  up  the  shining  course  before  you,  he 
points  you  to  the  prospect  of  an  endless  existence  beyond  the 
grave ;  and  assures  you  that  the  glories,  and  the  woes  of  it, 
depend  on  the  character  you  form  at  this  period  of  your  life. 


IRVING'S  VOYAGE.  139 


Here  is  an  argument  of  infinite  weight  for  the  cultiva- 
tion of  your  intellectual  and  moral  powers.  If  you  who  pos- 
sess these  powers  were  destined,  after  spending  a  few  days 
on  earth,  to  fall  into  non-existence  ;  if  there,  were  nothing  in 
you  which  death  cannot  destroy,  nor  the  grave  cover,  there 
would  indeed  be  but  little  inducement  to  cultivate  your  minds. 
"  For  who  would  take  pains  to  trim  a  taper  which  shines  but 
for  a  moment,  and  can  never  be  lighted  again  ?" 

But  if  you  have  minds  which  are  capable  of  endless 
progression  in  knowledge,  of  endless  approximation  to  the 
supreme  intelligence  ;  if  in  the  midst  of  unremitting  success, 
objects  of  new  interest  will  be  forever  opening  before  you; — 
O  what  prospects  are  presented  to  your  view  !  What  strong 
inducements  to  cultivate  your  mind  and  heart,  and  to  enter 
upon  that  course  of  improvement  here,  which  is  to  run  on 
brightening  in  glory  and  in  bliss,  ages  without  end. — Hawes. 


PROMISCUOUS     PIECES. 


Tlie  incidents    of  a  Voyage  across  the  Atlantic. 

To  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he 
has  to  make  is  an  excellent  preparative.  From  the  moment 
you  lose  sight  of  the  land  you  have  left,  all  is  vacancy  until 
you  step  on  the  opposite  shore,  and  are  launched  at  once  into 
the  bustle  and  novelties  of  another  world. 

I  have  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy.  I  should  correct 
the  expression.  To  one  given  up  to  day-dreammar,  and  I'ond 
of  losing  himself  in  reveries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects 
for  meditation;  but  then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep, 
and  of  the  air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract  the  mind  from 
worldly  themes.  I  delighted  to  loll  over  the  quarter-railing, 
or  climb  to  the  main-top  on  a  calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours 
together  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  summer's  sea  ;  or  to. gaze 
upon  the  piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the  hori- 
zon, fancy  them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people  them  with  a 
creation  of  my  own,  or  to  watch  the  gentle  Undulating  billows 
rolling  their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy 
shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security 
and  awe,  with  which  I  looked  down  from  my  giddy  height 


140  IRVING'S  VOYAGE 

on  the  monsters  of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gambols,— 
shoals  of  porpoises  tumbling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship, — the 
grampus  slowly  heaving  his  huge  form  above  the  surface, — 
or  the  ravenous  shark,  darting  like  a  spectre  through  the 
Glue  waters.  My  imagination  would  conjure  up  all  that  I 
had  heard  or  read  of  the  watery  world  beneath  me  ;  of  the 
finny  herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys ;  of  shapeless 
monsters  that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth; 
and  those  wild  phantasms  that  swell  the  tales  of  fishermen 
and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the 
ocean,  would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  How 
interesting  this  fragment  of  a  world,  hastening  to  rejoin  the 
great  mass  of  existence  !  What  a  glorious  monument  of  hu- 
man invention,  that  has  thus  triumphed  overwind  and  wave  ; 
has  brought  the  ends  of  the  earth  in  communion;  has  esta- 
blished an  interchange  of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile 
regions  of  the  north,  all  the  luxuries  of  the  south  ;  diffused 
the  light  of  knowledge  and  the  charities  of  cultivated  life  ; 
and  has  thus  bound  together  those  scattered  portions  of  the 
human  race,  between  which  nature  seems  to  have  thrown  an 
insurmountable  barrier ! 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at 
a  distance.  At  sea,  every  thing  that  breaks  the  monotony 
of  the  surrounding  expanse,  attracts  attention.  It  proved  tc 
be  the  mast  of  a  ship  that  must  have  been  completely  wreck- 
ed ;  for  there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by  which 
some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to  this  spar,  to 
prevent  their  being  washed  off  by  the  waves.  There  was  no 
trace  by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascertained. 
The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about  for  many  months: 
clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it,  and  long  sea- 
weeds flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where,  thought  I,  is  the  crew? 
—Their  struggle  has  long  been  over;  they  have  gone  down 
amidst  the  roar  of  the  tempest ;  their  bones  lie  whitening  in 
the  caverns  of  the  deep.  Silence—oblivion,  like  the  waves, 
has  closed  over  them,  and  no  one  'can  tell  the  story  of  their 
end. 

What  sighs  have  been  wafted  after  that  ship!  what 
prayers  offered  up  at  the  deserted  fire-side  of  home  !  How 
often  has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  and  the  mother,  poured  over 
the  daily  news  to  catch  some  casual  intelligence  of  this 
rover  of  the  deep  !  How  has  expectation  darkened  into 


ACROSS  THE  ATLANTIC.  141 

anxiety — anxiety  into  dread — and  dread  into  despair!  Alas, 
not  one  memento  shall  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish.  All 
that  shall  ever  be  known  is,  that  she  sailed  from  her  port, 
"  and  was  never  heard  of  more." 

The  sight  of  the  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many 
dismal  anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the 
evening,  when  the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair, 
began  to  look  wild  and  threatening,  and  gave  indications  of 
one  of  those  sudden  storms  that  will  sometimes  break  in  upon 
the  serenity  of  a  summer  voyage.  As  we  sat  round  the  dull 
light  of  a  lamp,  in  the  cabin,  that  made  the  gloom  more 
ghastly,  every  one  had  his  tale  of  shipwreck  and  disaster.  I 
was  particularly  struck  with  a  short  one  related  by  the  captain. 

"  As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "  in  a  fine  stout  ship 
across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  the  heavy  fogs 
that  prevail  in  those  parts,  rendered  it  impossible  for  me  to 
see  far  a-head,  even  in  the  day  time ;  but  at  night  the  weather 
was  so  thick  that  we  could  not  distinguish  any  object  at 
twice  the  length  of  our  ship.  I  kept  lights  at  the  mast-head, 
and  a  constant  watch  forward  to  look  out  for  fishing-smacks, 
which  are  accustomed  to  lie  at  anchor  on  the  banks.  The 
wind  was  blowing  a  smacking  breeze,  and*  we  were  going  a 
great  rate  through  the  water. 

"  Suddenly  the  watch  gave  the  alarm  of  '  a  sail  a-head  !' 
but  it  was  scarcely  uttered  till  we  were  upon  her.  She  was 
a  small  schooner  at  anchor,  with  her  broadside  toward  us. — 
The  crew  were  all  asleep,  and  had  neglected  to  hoist  a  light. 
We  struck  her  just  a-mid-ships.  The  force,  the  size,  and 
the  weight  of  our  vessel,  bore  her  down  below  the  waves ;  we 
passed  over  her,  and  were  hurried  on  our  course. 

"  As  the  crashing  wreck  was  sinking  beneath  us,  I 
had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  half-naked  wretches,  rushing 
from  her  cabin:  they  had  just  started  from  their  beds  to  be 
swallowed  shrieking  by  the  waves.  I  heard  their  drowning 
cry  mingling  with  the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore  it  to  our 
ears,  swept  us  out  of  all  further  hearing.  I  shall  never  forget 
that  cry  !  It  was  some  time  before  we  could  put  the  ship 
about,  she  was  under  such  headway.  We  returned,  as  nearly 
as  we  could  judge,  to  the  place  where  the  smack  was  an- 
chored.— We  cruised  about  for  several  hours  in  the  dense 
fog.  We  fired  several  guns,  and  listened  if  we  might  hear 
the  halloo  of  any  survivors ;  but  all  was  silent— we  never 
heard  nor  saw  any  thing  of  them  more  !" 

It  was  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  of 
"  land  !"  was  given  from  the  mast-head.   I  question  whether 


142  IRVING'S  VOYAGE.       ^ 

Columbus,  when  he  discovered  the  new  world,  felt  a  more 
delicious  throng  of  sensations,  than  rush  into  an  American's 
bosom  when  he  first  conies  in  sight  of  Europe.  There  is  a 
volume  of  associations  in  the  very  name.  It  is  the  land  of 
promise,  teeming  with  every  thing  of  which  his  childhood 
has  heard,  or  on  which  his  studious  ears  have  pondered. 

From  that  time,  until  the  period  of  arrival,  it  was  all 
feverish  excitement.  The  ships  of  war  that  prowled  like 
guardian  giants  ronnd  the  coast;  the  headlands  ot  Ireland, 
stretching  out  into  the  channel ;  the  Welsh  mountains,  tow- 
ering into  the  clouds;  all  were  objects  of  intense  interest. 
As  we  sailed  up  the  Mersey,!  reconnoitered  the  shores  with 
a  telescope.  My  eye  dwelt  with  delight  on  neat  cottages, 
with  their  trim  shrubberies  and  green  grass  plots.  I  saw  the 
mouldering  ruins  of  an  abbey  overrun  with  ivy,  and  the  taper 
spire  of  a  village  church,  rising  from  the  brow  of  a  neighbor- 
ing hill — all  were  characteristic  of  England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable,  that  the  ship 
was  enabled  to  come  at  once  at  the  pier.  It  was  thronged 
with  people  ;  some  idle  lookers-on,  others  eager  expectants 
of  friends  or  relatives.  I  could  distinguish  the  merchant  to 
whom  the  ship  belonged.  I  knew  him  by  his  calculating 
brow,  and  restless  air.  His  hands  were  thrust  into  his  pock- 
ets; he  was  whistling  thoughtfully,  and  walking  to  and  fro, 
a  small  space  having  been  accorded  to  him  by  the  crowd,  in 
deference  to  his  temporary  importance.  There  were  repeat- 
ed cheerings  and  salutations  interchanged  between  the  shore 
and  the  ship,  as  friends  happened  to  recognize  each  other. 

But  I  particularly  noted  one  young  woman  of  humble 
dress,  but  interesting  demeanor.  — She  was  leaning  forward 
from  among  the  crowd :  her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as  it 
neared  the  shore,  to  catch  some  wished-for  countenance. — 
She  seemed  disappointed  and  agitated,  when  I  heard  a  faint 
voice  call  her  name.  It  was  from  a  poor  sailor,  who  had 
been  ill  all  the  voyage,  and  had  excited  the  sympathy  of 
every  one  on  board.  When  the  weather  was  fine,  his  mess- 
mates had  spread  a  mattress  for  him  on  deck  in  the  shade; 
but  of  late  his  illness  had  so  increased,  that  he  had  taken  to 
his  hammoc,  and  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might  see 
his  wife  before  he  died. 

He  had  been  helped  on  deck  as  we  came  up  the  river, 
and  was  now  leaning  against  the  shrouds,  with  a  counte- 
nance so  wasted,  so  pale,  and  so  ghastly,  that  it  is  no  wonder 
even  the  eye  of  affection  did  not  recognize  him.  But  at  the 


THUNDER  STORM.  143 

sound  of  his  voice  her  eye  darted  on  his  features,  it  read  at 
once  a  whole  volume  of  sorrow  j  she  clasped  her  hands, 
uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  stood  wringing  them  in  silent 
agony. 

All  now  was  hurry  and  hustle — the  meeting  of  ac- 
quaintances— the  greetings  of  friends — the  consultation  of 
rnen  of  business.  I  alone  was  solitary  and  idle.  I  had  no 
friend  to  meet,  no  cheering  to  receive.  I  stepped  upon  the 
land  of  my  forefathers — but  felt  that  I  was  a  stranger  in  the 
(iincj.  IT.  Irving. 


of  q,  Thunder  Stnrm  on  tht  Highlands  of  the 
Hudson. 

IT  was  the  latter  part  of  a  calm,  sultry  day,  that  we 
floated  gently  with  the  tide,  between  those  stern  mountains, 
the  highlands  of  the  Hudson.  There  was  that  perfect  quiet 
which  prevails  over  nature  in  the  languor  of  summer  heat; 
the  turning  of  a  plank,  or  the  accidental  falling  of  an  oar  on 
deck,  was  echoed  from  the  mountain  side,  and  reverberated 
along  the  shores  ;  a,nd  if  by  chance  the  captain  gave  a  shout 
of  command,  there  were  ajry  tongues  that  mocked  it  from 
every  cliff. 

I  gazed  about  me  in  mute  delight  and  wonder,  at  these 
scenes  of  nature's  magnificence.  To  the  left  the  Dunderberg 
reared  its  woody  precipices,  height  over  height,  forest  over 
forest,  away  into  the  deep  summer  sky.  To  the  right  strut- 
ted forth  the  bold  promontory  of  Antony's  Nose,  with  a 
solitary  eagle  wheeling  about  it ;  while  beyond,  mountain 
succeeded  to  mountain,  until  they  seemed  to  lock  their  arms 
together,  and  confine  this  mighty  river  in  their  embraces. — 
There  was  a  feeling  of  quiet  luxury  in  gazing  at  the  broad, 
green  bosoms,  here  and  there  scooped  out  among  the  preci- 
pices;  or  at  woodlands  hiiih  in  air,  nodding  over  the  edge  of 
some  beetling  bluff,  and  their  foliage  all  transparent  in  the 
yellow  sunshine. 

In  the  midst  of  my  admiration,  I  remarked  a  pile  of 
bright  snowy  clouds  peering  above  the  western  heights.  It 
was  succeeded  by  another,  and  another,  each  seemingly 
pushing  onward  its  predecessor,  and  towering,  with  dazzling 
brilliancy,  in  the  deep  blue  atmosphere:  and  now,  muttering 
peals  of  thunder  were  faintly  heard,  rolling  behind  the 


144  VIRTUOUS  SENSIBILITY. 


mountains.  The  river,  hitherto  still  and  glassy,  reflecting 
pictures  of  the  sky  and  land,  now  showed  a  dark  ripple  at  a 
distance,  as  the  breeze  came  creeping  up  it.  The  fish  hawks 
wheeled  and  screamed,  and  sought  their  nests  on  the  high 
dry  trees;  the  crows  flew  clamorously  to  the  crevioes  of  the 
rocks,  and  all  nature  seemed  conscious  of  the  approaching 
thundergust. 

The  clouds  now  rolled  in  v.olumes  over  the  mountain 
tops ;  their  summit  still  bright  and  snowy,  but  the  lower  parts 
of  an  inky  blackness.  The  rain  began  to  patter  down  in 
broad  and  scattered  drops  ;  the  wind  freshened,  and  curled 
up  the  waves;  at  length  it  seemed  as  if  the  bellying  clouds 
were  torn  open  by  the  mountain  lops,  and  complete  torrents 
of  rain  came  rattling  down.  The  lightning  leaped  from  cloud 
to  cloud,  and  streamed  quivering  against  the  rocks,  splitting 
and  rending  the  stoutest  forest  trees.  The  thunder  burst  in 
tremendous  explosions ;  the  peals  were  echoed  from  moun- 
tain to  mountain  ;  they  crashed  upon  Dunderberg,  and  rolled 
up  the  long  defile  of  the  highlands,  each  headland  making  a 
new  echo,  until  old  Bull  Hill  seemed  to  bellow  back  the 
storm. 

For  a  time  the  scudding  rack  and  mist,  and  the  sheeted 
rain,  almost  hid  the  landscape  from  the  sight.  There  was  a 
fearful  gloom,  illumined  still  more  fearfully  by  the  streams 
of  lightning  which  glittered  among  the  rain  drops.  Never 
had  I  beheld  such  an  absolute  warring  of  the  elements ;  it 
seemed  as  if  the  storm  was  tearing  and  rending  its  way 
through  this  mountain  defile,  and  had  brought  all  the  artillery 
of  heaven  into  action.  Irving. 


The  happy  effects  of  a  virtuous  sensibility. 

THE  exercise  of  a  virtuous  sensibility,  powerfully  in- 
fluences the  proper  discharge  of  all  the  relative  and  social 
duties  of  life.  Without  some  discharge  of  those  duties,  there 
could  be  no  comfort  nor  security  in  human  society.  Men 
would  become  hordes  of  savages  perpetually  harassing  one 
another.  In  one  way  or  other,  therefore,  the  great  duties  of 
social  life  must  be  performed.  There  must  be  among  man- 
kind some  reciprocal  co-operation  and  aid.  In  this  all 
consent.  But  let  us  observe,  that  these  duties  may  be  per- 
formed from  different  principles,  and  in  different  ways. 

Sometimes  they  are  performed  merely  from  decency 


VIRTUOUS    SENSIBILITY.  145 

and  regard  to  character;  sometimes  from  fear,  and  even 
from  selfishness,  which  obliges  men  to  show  kindness,  in 
order  that  they  may  receive  returns  of  it.  In  such  cases, 
the  exterior  of  fair  behavior  may  be  preserved.  But  all  will 
admit,  that  when  from  constraint  only,  the  offices  of  seeming 
kindness  are  performed,  little  dependence  can  be  placed  on 
them,  and  little  value  allowed  to  them. 

By  others,  these  offices  are  discharged  solely  from  a 
principal  of  duty.  They  are  men  of  cold  affections,  and 
perhaps  of  an  interested  character.  But  overawed  by  a 
sense  of  religion,  and  convinced  that  they  are  bound  to  be 
beneficent,  they  fulfill  the  course  of  relative  duties  with  regu- 
lar tenor.  Such  men  act  from  conscience  and  principle.  So 
far  they  do  well  and  are  worthy  of  praise.  They  assist 
their  friends;  they  give  to  the  poor  ;  they  do  justice  to  all. 

But  what  a  different  complexion  is  given  to  the  same- 
actions, — how  much  higher  flavor  do  they  acquire, — when 
they  flow  from  the  sensibility  of  a  feeling  heart?  If  one  be 
not  moved  by  affection,  even  supposing  him  influenced  by 
principle,  he  will  go  no  farther  than  strict  principle  appears 
to  require.  He  will  advance  slowly  and  reluctantly.  As  it 
is  justice,  not  generosity,  Avhich  impels  him,  he  will  often 
feel  as  a  task  what  he  is  required  by  conscience  to  perform,, 
Whereas,  to  him  who  is  prompted  by  virtuous  sensibility, 
every  office  of  beneficence  and  humanity  is  a  pleasure, 

He  gives,  assists,  and  relieves,  not  merely  because  he  is 
bound  to  do  so,  but  because  it  would  be  painful  for  him  to 
refrain.  Hence  the  smallest  benefit  he  confers  rises  in  Us 
value  on  acount  of  its  carrying  the  affection  of  the  giver 
impressed  upon  the  gift.  It  speaks  his  heart,  and  the  disco- 
very of  the  heart  is  very  frequently  of  greater  consequence 
than  all  that  liberality  can  bestow. 

How  often  will  the  affectionate  smile  of  approbation 
gladden  the  humble,  an,d  raise  the  dejected  !  How  often  will 
the  look  of  tender  sympathy,  or  the  tear  that  involuntarily 
falls,  impart  consolation  to  the  unhappy !  By  means  of  this 
correspondence  of  hearts,  all  the  great  duties  which  we  owe 
to  one  another  are  both  performed  to  more  advantage,  and 
endeared  in  the  performance. 

From  true  sensibility  flow  a  thousand  good  offices,  ap- 
parently small  in  themselves,  but  of  high  importance  to  the 
felicity  of  others  ; — offices  which  altogether  escape  the  ob- 
servation of  the  cold  and  unfeeling,  who  by  the  hardness  of 
their  manner  render  themselves  unamiable,  even  when  they 


10 


146  IMPORTANCE  OF  ORDER. 


mean  to  do  good.  How  happy  then  would  it  be  for  man- 
kind, if  this  affectionate  disposition  prevailed  more  generally 
in  the  world  !>  How  much  would  the  sum  of  pubJic  virtue 
and  public  felicity  be  increased,  if  men  were  always  inclined 
to  rejpice  with  those  that  rejoice,  and  to  weep  with  those 
that  weep.  Blair. 


The  importance  of  order  in  the  management  of  business. 

WHATEVER  may  be  your  business  or  occupation  in 
life,  let  the  administration  of  it  proceed  with  method  and 
economy.  From  time  to  time  examine,  your  situation  ;  and 
proportion  your  expense  to  your  growing,  or  diminishing 
revenue.  Provide  what  is  necessary  before  you  indulge  in 
what  is  superfluous.  Study  to  do  justice  to  all  with  whom 
you  deal,  before  you  'affect  the  praise  of  liberality.  In  ^ 
word,  fix  such  a  plan  of  living  as  you  find  that  your  circum- 
stances will  fairly  admit,  and  adhere  tqjt  invariably,  against 
every  temptation  to  improper  excess. 

No  admonition  respecting  morals  is  more  necessary  than 
this,  to  the  age  in  \vhich  we  live — an  age  manifestly  distin- 
guished hy  a  propensity  to  thoughtless  profusion  ;  wherein 
all  the  different  ranks  of  men  are  observed  to  press  with  for- 
ward vanity  on  tho.se  who  are  above  them;  to  vie  with  their 
superiors  in  every  mode  of  luxury  and  ostentation;  and  to 
see*  no  farther  argument  for  justifying  extravagance,  than 
tne  fashion  of  the  times  and  the  supposed  necessity  of  living 
like  others  around  them. 

-This  turn  of  mind  begets  contempt  for  sober  and  orderly 
plans  of  life.  It  overthrows  all  regard  to  domestic  concerns 
and  duties.  It  pushes  men  on  to  hazardous  and  visionary 
schemes  of  gain,  and  unfortunately  unites  the  two  extremes 
of  grasping  with  rapaciousness  and  of  squandering  with 
profusion.  In  the  midst  of  such  disorder  no  prosperity  can, 
be  of  long  continuance.  While  confusion  grows  upon  men's 
affairs,  and  prodigality  at  the  same  time  wastes  their  sub- 
stance, poverty  makes  its  advances  like  an  armed  man. 

They  tremble  at  the  view  of  the  approaching  evil,  but 
have  lost  the  force  of  mind  to  make  provision  against  it. 
Accustomed  to  move  in  a  round  of  society  and  pleasures 
disproportioned  to  their  condition,  they  are  unable  to  break 
fhrough  the  enchantments  of  habit ;  and,  with  their  eyes 


FUNERAL  OF  MARIA.  147 


open  sink  into  the  gulf  which  is  before  them.  Poverty'en- 
forces  dependence;  and  dependence  increases  corruption. 
Necessity  first  betrays  them  into  mean  compliances;  next 
impels  them  to  open  crime  ;  and,  beginning  with  ostentation 
and  extravagance,  they  end  in  infamy  and  guilt. 

Such  are  the  consequences  of  neglecting  order  in  our 
worldly  circumstances.  Such  is  the  circle  in  which  the  pro- 
fuse and  the  dissolute  daily  run.  To  what  cause  so  much  as 
to  the  want  of  order,  can  we  attribute  those  scenes  of  distress 
which  so  frequently  excite  our  pity — families  that  once  were 
flourishing  reduced  to  ruin,  and  the  melancholy  widow  and 
neglected  orphan  thrown  forth  friendless  upon  the  world? 
What  cause  has  been  more  fruitful  in  engendering  those 
Atrocious  crimes  which  fill  society  with  disquiet  and  terror, 
in  training  the  gamester  to  fraud,  the  robber  to  violence,  and 
even  the  assassin  to  blood  ? 

Be  assured,  then,  that  order,  frugality,  and  economy  are 
the  necessary  supports  of  every  personal  and  private  virtue. 
How  humble  soever  these  qualities  may  appear  to  some,  they 
are  nevertheless  the  basis  on  which  liberty,  independence, 
and  true  honor  must  rise.  He  who  has  the  steadiness  to  .ar- 
range his  affairs  with  method  and  regularity,  and  to  conduct 
his  train  of  life  agreeably  to  his  circumstances,  can  be  master 
of  himself  in  every  situation  into  which  he  may  be  thrown. 

He  is  under  no  necessity  to  flatter  or  to  lie,  to  stoop  to 
what  is  mean,  or  to  commit  what  is  criminal.  But  he  who 
wants  that  firmness  of  mind  which  the  observance  of  order 
requires,  is  held  in  Bondage  to  the  world  ;  he  can  neither  act 
his  part  with  courage  as  a  man.  nor  with  fidelity  as  a  Chris- 
pan.  From  the  moment  you  have  allowed  yourselves  to  pass 
the  line  ef  economy,  and  live  beyond  your  fortune,  you  have 
entered  on  the  path  of  danger.  Precipices  surround  you  on 
all  sides.  Every  step  which  you  take  may  lead  to  mischiefs 
fhat  as  yet  lie  hidden,  and  to  crimes  that  will  end  in  ever- 
Jasting  perdition.  Blair. 


The  Funeral  of  Maria. 

MARIA  was  in  her  twentieth  year.  To  the  beauty  of  her 
form,  and  excellence  of  her  natural  disposition,  a  parent, 
equally  indulgent  and  attentive,  had  done  the  fullest  justice. 
To  accomplish  her  person,  and  to  cultivate  her  mind,  every 
endeavor  had  been  used,  and  had  been  attended  with  that 


148  FUNERAL  OP  MARIA. 

success  which  parental  efforts  commonly  meet  with,  when 
not  prevented  by  mistaken  fondness  or  untimely  vanity. 

Few  young  ladies  have  attracted  more  admiration  ;  none 
ever  felt  it  less  :  with  all  the  charms  of  beauty,  and  the  polish 
of  education,  the  plainest  were  not  less  affected,  nor  the  most 
ignorant  less  assuming.  She  died  when  every  tongue  was 
eloquent  of  her  virtues,  when  every  hope  was  ripening  to  re- 
ward them. 

It  is  by  such  private  and  domestic  distresses,  that  the 
softer  emotions  of  the  heart  are  more  strongly  excited.  The 
fall  of  more  important  personages  is  commonly  distant  from 
our  observation;  but  even  where  it  happens  under  our  im- 
mediate notice,  there  is  a  mixture  of  other  feelings,  by  which 
our  compassion  is  weakened. 

The  eminently  great,  or  extensively  useful,  leave  behind 
them  a  train  of  interrupted  views,  and  disappointed  expecta- 
tions, by  which  the  distress  is  complicated  beyond  the  sim- 
plicity of  piety.  But  the  death  of  one,  who  like  Maria  was  to 
shed  the  influence  of  her  virtues  over  the  age  of  a  father,  and 
the  childhood  of  her  sisters,  presents  to  us  a  little  view  of  fa- 
mily affliction,  which  every  eye  can  perceive,  and  every  heart 
can  feel. 

On  scenes  of  public  sorrow  and  national  regret,  we  gaze 
as  upon  those  gallery  pictures,  which  strike  us  with  wonder 
and  admiration:  domestic  calamity  is  like  the  miniature  oi 
a  friend,  which  we  wear  in  our  bosoms,  and  keep  for  secret 
looks  and  solitary  enjoyment. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Maria,  was  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd- 
ed assembly  of  the  fashionable  and  the  gay,  where  she  fixed 
all  eyes  by  the  gracefulness  of  her  motions,  and  the  native 
dignity  of  her  mien ;  yet,  so  tempered  was  that  superiority 
which  they  conferred  with  gentleness  and  modesty,  that  not 
a  murmur  was  heard,  either  from  the  rivalship  of  beauty,  or 
the  envy  of  homeliness.  From  that  scene  the  transition  was 
so  violent  to  the  hearse  and  the  pall,  the  grave  and  the  sod, 
that  once  or  twice  my  imagination  turned  rebel  to  my  senses, 
I  beheld  the  objects  around  me  as  the  painting  of  a  dream, 
and  thought  of  Maria  as  still  living. 

I  was  soon,  however,  recalled  to  the  sad  reality.  The 
figure  of  her  father  bending  over  'he  grave  of  his  darling 
child ;  the  silent,  suffering  composure,  in  which  his  counte- 
nance, was  fixed  ;  the  tears  of  his  attendants,  whose  grief  was 
light  and  capable  of  tears ;  these  gave  me  back  the  truth,  and 
reminded  me  that  I  should  see  her  no  more.  There  was  a 


FUNERAL  OF  MARIA.  249 

flow  of  sorrow,  with  which  I  suffered  myself  to  be  borne 
along  with  a  melancholy  kind  of  indulgence  ;  but  when  her 
father  drojmed  the  cord  with  which  he  had  helped  to  lay 
his  Maria  in^e  earth,  its  sound  on  the  coffin  chilled  my 
heart,  and  holror  for  a  moment  took  place  of  pity  ! 

It  was  but  for  a  moment. — He  looked  eagerly  into  the 
grave ;  made  one  involuntary  motion  to  stop  the  assistants, 
who  were  throwing  the  earth  into  it;  then,  suddenly  recol- 
lecting himself,  clasped  his  hands  together,  threw  up  his  eyes 
to  heaven,  and  then,  first,  I  saw  a  few  tears  drop  from  them. 
I  gave  language  to  all  this.  It  spoke  a  lesson  of  faith,  and 
piety,  and  resignation.  I  went  away  sorrowful,  but  my  sor- 
row was  neither  ungentle  nor  unmanly  ;  I  cast  on  this  world 
a  glance  rather  of  pity  than  of  enmity;  and  on  the  next,  a 
look  of  humbleness  and  hope  ! 

Such,  I  am  persuaded,  will  commonly  be  the  effect  of 
scenes  like  that  I  have  described,  on  minds  neither  frigid  nor 
unthinking:  for,  of  feelings  like  these,  the  gloom  of  the  as- 
cetic is  as  little  susceptible  as  the  levity  of  the  giddy.  There 
needs  -a  certain  pliancy  of  mind  which  society  alone  can 
give,  though  its  vices  often  destroy  it, — to  render  us  capable 
of  that  gentle  melancholy,  which  makes  sorrow  pleasant, 
and  affliction  useful. 

It  is  not  from  a  melancholy  of  this  sort,  that  men  are 
prompted  from  the  cold,  unfruitful  virtues  of  monkish  solitude. 
These  are  often  the  effects,  rather  of  passion  secluded  than 
repressed,  rather  of  temptation  avoided  than  overcome.  The 
crucifix  and  the  rosary,  the  death's  head  and  the  bones,  if 
custom  has  not  made  them  indifferent,  will  rather  chill  desire 
than  excite  virtue ;  but,  amidst  the  warmth  of  social  affection, 
and  of  social  sympathy,  the  heart  will  feel  the  weakness,  and 
enjoy  the  duties  of  humanity. 

Perhaps  it  will  be  said,  that  such  situations  and  such 
reflections  as  the  foregoing,  will  only  affect  minds  already  too 
tender,  and  be  disregarded  by  those  who  need  the  lessons  they 
impart.  But  this,  I  apprehend,  is  to  allow  too  much  to  the 
force  of  habit,  and  the  resistance  of  prejudice. 

I  will  not  pretend  to  assert,  that  rooted  principles  and 
long-established  conduct  are  suddenly  to  be  changed  by  the 
effects  of  situation,  or  the  eloquence  of  sentiment;  but,  if  it 
be  granted  that  such  change  ever  took  place,  who  shall  deter- 
mine by  what  imperceptible  motive  or  accidental  impression, 
it  was  first  begun?  And,  even  if  the  influence  of  such  a  call 
to  thought  can  only  smother  in  its  birth,  one  allurement  to 


150  VISION  OF  MIRZA. 


evil,  or  confirm  one  wavering  purpose  to  virtue,  I  shall  not 
have  unjustly  commended  that  occasional  indulgence  of  pen- 
siveness  and  sorrow,  which  will  thus  be  renderjk  not  only 
one  of  the  refinements,  but  one  of  the  improvenjg^s  of  life. 

cenzie. 


dere&r 
:ruen& 

Mdcke 


Tlit  Vision  ofMirza. 

ON  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which  according  to  the 
custom  of  my  forefathers  I  always  kept  holy,  after  having 
washed  myself,  and  offered  up  rny  morning  devotions,  I  as- 
cended the  high  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of 
the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  my- 
self on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound  con- 
templation on  the  vanity  of  human  life  ;  and,  passing  from 
one  thought  to  another,  "Surely,"  said  I,  "man  is  but  a  sha- 
dow, and  life  a  dream." 

While  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  toward  the 
summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  disco- 
vered one,  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd;,  with  a  musical  instru- 
ment in  his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to  his 
lips,  and  began  to  play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  exceed- 
ingly sweet,  and  wrought  into  a  variety  of  tunes  that  were 
inexpressibly  melodious,  and  altogether  different  from  any 
thing  I  had  ever  heard.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  those  hea- 
venly airs  that  are  played  to  the  departed  souls  of  good  men 
upon  their  first  arrival  in  paradise,,  to  wear  out  the  impres- 
sions of  their  last  agonies,  and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures 
of  that  happy  place. 

My  heart  melted  away  in  secret  raptiires.  I  had  been 
often  told  that  the  rock  before  me  was  the  haunt  of  a  Genius, 
and  that  several  had  been  entertained  with  music  who  had 
passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  *hat  the  musician  had  before 
made  himself  visable.  When  he  Sad  raised  my  thoughts,  by 
those  transporting  airs  which  he  played,  to  taste  the  pleasure 
of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one  astonish- 
ed, he  beckon  d  to  me,  and,  by  the  waving  of  his  hand  di- 
rected me  to  approach  the  place  where  he  sat. 

I  drew  near,  with  that  reverence  which  is  due  6  a  su- 
perior nature  ;  and,  as  my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the 
captivating  strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet  and 
wept.    The  Geniu    smiled  upon  me  with  a  look  of  compa* 
sion  and  affability,   that  familiarized  him  to  my  imagination^ 


VISION  OF  MIRZA.  151 

and  at  once  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehensions  with 
which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted  me  from  the  ground, 
and,  taking  me  by  the  hand,  "  Mirza,"  said  lie,  "  I  have  heard 
thee  in  thy  soliloquies  :  follow  me." 

He  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and 
placing  me  on  the  top  of  it,  ''Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,"  said 
he,  "and  tell  me  what  thou  seest."  "1  see,"  said  I,  "a  huge 
valley,  and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling  through  it." 
u  The  valley  that  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "  is  the  valley  of  mise- 
ry ;  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest,  is  part  of  the  great 
tide  of  eternity."  "  What  is  the  reason,"  said  I,  "  that  the 
tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a  thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses 
itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other?" 

"What  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "  is  that  portion  of  eterni- 
ty which  is  called  time,  measured  out  hy  the  sun,  and  reach- 
ing iVorri  the  beginning  of  the  wbrld  to  its  consummation. 
Examine,  now,"  said  he,  "  this  sea,  that  is  thus  bounded  with 
darkne.ss  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in 
it."  "t  see  a  bridge,"  said  I,  "standing  in  the  midst  of  the 
tide."  "The  bridge  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "is  human  life: 
consider  it  attentively."  Upon  a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it, 
i  found  that  it  consisted  of  three-score  and  -ten  entire  arches, 
with  several  broken  arches,  which,  added  to  those  that  were 
entire,  made  up  the  number  of  about  a  hundred. 

As  I  was  counting  the  arches  the  Genius  told  me  that 
this  bridge  consisted,  at  first,  of  a  thousand  arches;  but  that 
a  great  flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the 
ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.  "  But  tell  me  farther," 
said  he,  "what  thou  discoverest  on  it:"  "I  see  multitudes 
of  people  passing  over  it,"  said  I,  "  and  a  black  cloud  hang- 
ing on  each  end  of  it." 

As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of  the  pas- 
sengers dropping  through  the  bridge  into  the  great  tide  that 
flowed  underneath  it;  and,  upon  farther  examination,  per- 
ceived there  were  innumerable  trap-doors  that  lay  concealed 
in  the  bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon,  but 
they  fell  through  them  into  the  tide,  and  immediately  disap- 
peared. These  hidden  pit-falls  Were  set  very  thick  at  the 
entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that  the  throngs  of  people  no  sooner 
broke  through  the  cloud,  than  mahy  of  them  fell  into  them. 
They  grew  thinner  toward  the  middle,  but  multiplied  and 
lay  closer  together  toward  the  end  of  the  arches  that  were 
entire. 

There  were  indeed  some  persons — but  their  number  was 
Very  small — that  continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on  thfc 


152  VISION  OF  MIRZA. 

broken  arches,  but  fell  through,  one  after  another,  being  quite 
tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk.  I  passed  some  time  in 
the  contemplation  of  this  wonderful  structure,  and  the  great 
variety  of  objects  which  it  presented. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy  to  see  se- 
veral dropping  unexpectedly,  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jolli- 
ty, and  catching  by  every  thing  that  stood  by  them  to  save 
themselves.  Some  were  looking  up  toward  the  heavens  in 
a  thoughtful  posture,  and,  in  the  midst  of  a  speculation, 
stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were  very  busy  in 
the  pursuit  of  bubbles,  that  glittered  in  their  eyes  and  danced 
before  them  j  but  often,  when  they  thought  themselves  with- 
in the  reach  of  them,  their  footing  failed,  and  down  they  sunk. 

In  this  confusion  of  objects,  I  observed  some  with  ci- 
meters  in  their  hands,  and  others  with  lances,  who  ran  to 
and  fro  upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on  trap- 
doors, which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which 
they  might  have  escaped  had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon 
them. 

The  Genius,  seeing  me  indulge  myself  in  this  melan- 
choly prospect,  told  me  i  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it. 
— "  Take  thine  eyes  oil' the  bridge,"  said  he,  "and  tell  me  if 
thou  yet  seest  any  thing  thou  dost  not  comprehend."  Upon 
looking  up,  "What  mean,"  said  I,  "those  great  flights  of 
birds  that  are  perpetually  hovering  about  the  bridge,  and  set- 
tling upon  it  from  time  to  time!  I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ra- 
vens, cormorants,  and  among  many  other  feathered  creatures, 
several  little  winged  boys,  that  perch  in  great  numbers  upon 
the  middle  arches." 

"  These,"  said  the  Genius,  "  are  Envy,  Avarice,  Super- 
stition, Despair,  Love,  with  the  like  cares  and  passions  that 
infest  human  life."  I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  "  Alas  !" 
said  I,  "  man  was  made  in  vain  !  how  is  he  given  away  to 
misery  and  mortality!  tortured  in  life,  and  swallowed  up  in 
•death!"  The  Genius  being  moved  with  compassion  toward 
me,  bid  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.  u  Look  no 
more,"  said  he,  "on  man,  in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence, 
in  his  setting  out  for  eternity  ;  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick 
mist,  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several' generations  of 
mortals  that  fall  into  it." 

I  directed  my  sight  as  I  was  ordered,  and — whether  or 
no  the  good  Genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural 
force,  or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick 
for  the  eye  to  penetrate — I  saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  far- 
ther end,  and  spreading  forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  tha^ 


VISION  OF  MIRZA.  153 

had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through  the  midst  of  it, 
and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The  clouds  still  rested 
on  one  half  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover  nothing  in  it; 
but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean,  planted  with  in- 
numerable islands  that  were  covered  with  fruits  and  flowers, 
and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little  shining  seas  that  ran 
among  them. 

I  could  see  persons  dressed  in  glorious  habits,  with 
garlands  upon  their  heads,  passing  among  the  trees,  lying 
down  by  the  sides  of  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers ; 
and  could  hear  a  confused  harmony  of  singing  birds,  falling 
waters,  human  voices,  and  musical  instruments.  Gladness 
grew  in  me  upon  the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a  scene.  I 
wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly  away  to 
those  happy  seats;  but  the  Genius  told  me  there  was  no 
passage  to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of  death  that  I  saw 
opening  every  moment. upon  the  bridge. 

"T-he  islands,"  said  he,  "that  lie  so  fresh  and  green 
before  thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  face  of  the  ocean  ap- 
pears spotted,  as  far  as  thou  canst  see,  are  more  in  number 
than  the  sands  on  the  sea  shore.  There  are  myriads  of  isl- 
ands behind  those  which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching  far- 
ther than  thine  eye,  or  even  thine  imagination  can  extend 
itself.  These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after  death,  who, 
according  to  the  degrees  and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they 
excelled,  are  distributed  among  these  several  islands,  which 
abound  with  pleasures  of  different  kinds  and  degrees,  suitable 
to  the  relishes  and  perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  m 
them.  Every  island  is  a  paradise,  accommodated  to  its  re- 
spective inhabitants. 

"  Are  not  these,  O  Mirza,  habitations  worth  contending 
for  ?  Does  life  appear  miserable,  that  gives  the  opportuni- 
ties of  earning  such  a  reward?  Is  death  to  be  feared,  that 
will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  existence?  Think  not  man 
was  made  in  vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity  reserved  for 
him."  I  gazed  with  inexpressible  pleasure  on  those  happy 
islands. — At  length,  said  I,  "  Show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee. 
the  secrets  that  lie  under  those  dark  clouds  that  cover  the 
>cean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant." 

The  Genius  making  me  no  answer,  I  turned  about  to 
address  myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had 
left  me.  I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had  been 
so  long  contemplating;  but,  instead  of  the  rolling  tide,  the 
arched  bridge,  and  the  happy  islands  I  saw  nothing  but  the 

10* 


154  ETERNITY  OF  GOD. 

Jong,  hollow  valley  of  Bagdat,  with  oxen,  sheep  and  camels 
grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it.  Addison. 


The  Eternity  of  God. 

IF  all  who  live  and  breathe  around  us  are  the  creatures 
of  yesterday,  and  destined  to  see  destruction  to-morrow;  if 
the  same  condition  is  our  own,  and  the  same  sentence  is  writ- 
ten against  us  ;  if  the  solid  forms  of  inanimate  nature  and 
laborious  art,  are  fading  and  falling;  if  we  look  in  vain  for 
durability  to  the  very  roots  of  the  mountains,  where  shall  we 
turn,  and  on  what  can  we  rely  ?  Can  no  support  be  offered  ; 
can  no  source  of  confidence  be  named?  Oh  yes!  there  is 
one  Being  to  whom  we  can  look,  with  a  perfect  conviction 
of  finding  that  security,  which  nothing  about  us  can  give, 
and  which  nothing  about  us  can  take  away. 

To  this  Being  we  can  lift  up  our  souls,  and  on  him  we 
may  rest  them,  exclaiming  in  the  language  of  the  monarch 
of  Israel,  ';  Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  even 
thou  hadst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world,  even  from  ever- 
lasting to  everlasting  thou  art  God."  "  Of  old  hast  thou  laid 
the  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  the  heavens  are  the  work 
of  thy  hands.  They  shall  perish,  but  thou  shalt  endure ;  yea^ 
all  of  them  shall  wax, old  like  a  garment,  as  a  vesture  shall 
thou  change  them,  and  they  shall  be  changed ;  but  thou  art 
the  same,  and  thy  years  shall  have  no  end." 

The  eternity  of  God  is  a  subject  of  contemplation,  which. 
at  the  same  time  that  it  overwhelms  us  with  astonishment 
and  awe,  affords  us  an  irhmoveable  ground  of  confidence  in 
the  midst  of  a  changing  world.  All  things  which  surround 
us,  all  these  dying,  mouldering  inhabitants  of  time,  must' 
have  had  a  Creator,  for  the  plain  reason  that  they  could  not 
have  created  themselves.  And  their  Creator  must  have 
existed  from  all  eternity,  for  the  plain  reason  that  the  first 
cause  must  necessarily  be  uncaused. 

As  we  cannot  suppose  a  beginning  without  a  cause  of 
existence,  that  which  is  the  cause  of  all  existence  must  be 
;  self-existent,  and  could  have  had  no  beginning.  And,  as  it 
had  no  beginning,  so  also,  as  it  is  beyond  the  reach  of  all  in- 
fluence and  control,  as  it  is  independent  and  almighty,  it  will 
have  no  end.  Here  then  is  a  support  which  will  never  fail; 
<here  is  a  foundation  which  can  never  be  moved — the  ever- 
lasting Creator  of  countless  worlds,  "  the  high  and  lofty  One 
that  inhabits  eternity." 


THE  SE4.  155 


What  a. sublime  conception!  He  inhabits  eternity,  oc- 
cujnes  this  inconceivable  ^  uration,  pervades  and  fills  through- 
out this  boundless  dwelling.  Ages  on  ages,  before  even  the 
dust  of  which  we  are  formed  was  create-d,  he  had  existed  in 
infinite  majesty  ;  and  ages  on  ages  will  roll  away,  after  we 
have  returned  to  the  dust  whence  we  were  taken,  and  still  he 
will  exist  in  infinite  majesty,  living  in  tlie  eternity  of  his  own 
nature,  reigning  in  the  plenitude  of  liis  own  omnipotence, 
for  .ever  sending  forth  the  word  which,  for iris,  supports,  and 
governs  all  things,  commanding  new,  created  lights  to  shine 
on  new  created  worlds,  and  raising  up  new  created  genera- 
tions to  inhabit  them. 

The  contemplation  of  this  glorious  attribute  of  God,  is 
fitted  to  excite  in  our  minds  the  most  animating  and  consol- 
ing reflections.  Standing  as  we  are  amid  t^ie  ruins  of  time, 
arid  the  wrecks  of  mortality,  where  everything  about  us  is 
created  and  dependent,  proceeding  from  nothing,  and  hasten- 
ing to  destruction,  we  rejoice  thai,  something  is  presented  to 
our, view  whicli  has  stood  from  everlasting^  and  will  remain 
forever. 

When  we  have  looked  on  the  pleasures  of  life,  and 
they  have  vanished  away  ;  when  we  have  looked  on  the 
works  of  nature,  and  perceived  that  they  were  changing; 
on  the  monuments  of  art,  and  seen  that  they  would  not 
stand;  on  our  frjends, and  they  have  fled  while  we  were  ga- 
idn.g ;  on  ourselves,  and  felt  that  we  were  as  fleeting  as  they  ; 
when  we  have  looked  on  every  object  to  which  we  could 
turn  our  anxious  eyes,  and  they  have  all  told  us  that  they 
could  give  us  no  hope  nor  support,  because  they  were  so 
feeble  themselves;  we  can  look  to  the  throne  of  God: 
change  and  decay  have  never  reached  that ;  the  revolution 
of  ages  has  never  moved  it;  the  waves  of  an  eternity  have 
V>een  rushing  past  it,  but  it  has  remained  unshaken;  the 
waves  of  another  eternity  are  rushing  toward  it,  but  it  is 
fixed,  and  never  can  be  disturbed.  Greenwood. 


The  Sea  and  its  Inhabitants. 

THE  sea  carries  indubitable  evidences  of  a  most  wise 
and  gracious  ordination.  How  grand,  surprisingly  grand 
and  majestic,  are  the  \yorks  as  well  as  the  attributes,  of  an 
omnipotent  Being !  What  are  the  canals  in  all  the  coun- 


156  THE  SEA  AND 


tries  of  the  earth  compared  with  this  reservatory  ! — What 
are  all  the  superb  edifices,  erected  by  royal  magnificence, 
compared  with  yonder  concave  of  the  skies !  And  what  are 
the  most  pompous  illuminations  of  theaters  and  triumphant 
cities,  compared  with  the  resplendent  source  of  day  ! 

Let  us  examine  a  single  drop  of  water — the  very  least 
quantity  the  eye  can  discover.  In  this  almost  imperceptible 
speck,  a  famous  philosopher  computes  no  less  than  thirteen 
thousand  globules.  Amazing  to  conceive!  Impossible  to 
explicate !  If.  then,  in  so  small  a  speck  abundantly  more 
than  ten  thousand  globules  exist,  what  myriads  of  myriads 
must  float  in  the  unmeasured  extent  of  the  ocean  ! 

Let  the  ablest  arithmetician  try  to  comprehend  in  his 
mind,  not  the  internal  constitution,  but  only  the  number  of 
these  fluid  particles.  As  well  may  he  grasp  the  winds  in  his 
fist,  or  mete  out  the  universe  with  his  span,  as  execute  the 
task.  Great  then,  inconceivably  great,  is  that  adored  and 
glorious  Sovereign,  who  sitteth  upon  this  flood  as  upon  a 
throne;  nay,  who  holds  it,  diffused  as  it  is  from  pole  to  pole, 
in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and  before  whom,  in  all  its  prodi- 
gious dimensions,  it  is  but  as  the  drop  of  a  bucket. 

Nor  are  the  regions  of  the  ocean  without  their  proper 
and  peculiar  inhabitants,  who  are  clothed  and  accoutered  in 
exact  conformity  to  the  clime — not  in  swelling  wool,  or 
buoyant  feathers  ;  not  in  a  flowing  robe,  or  a  well  trimmed 
suit — hut  with  as  much  compactness,  and  with  as  little  super- 
fluity as  possible.  They  are  clad,  or  rather  sheathed  with 
scales,  which  adhere  closely  to  their  bodies,  and  are  always 
laid  in  a  kind  of  natural  oil— than  which  apparel,  nothing 
can  be  more  light,  and  at  the  same  time  nothing  more  solid. 

It  hinders  the  fluid  from  penetrating  their  flesh  ;  it  pre- 
vents the  cold  from  coagulating  their  blood  ;  and  enables 
them  to  make  their  way  through  the  waters  with  the  utmost 
facility.  They  have  each  an  air  bladder,  a  curious  instru- 
ment, by  which  they  increase  or  diminish  their  specific  gra- 
vity ;  sink  like  lead,  or  float  like  a  cork ;  rise  to  what  height, 
or  descend  to  what  depth  they  please. 

It  is  impossible  to  enter  on  the  musterroll  of  those  scaly 
herds,  and  that  minuter  fry,  which  graze  the  sea  weed,  or 
stray  through  the  coral  groves.  They  are  innumerable  as 
the  sands  which  lie  under  them;  countless  as  the  waves 
which  cover  them.  Here  are  uncouth  animals  of  monstrous 
shapes,  and  amazing  qualities.  Some  that  have  been  disco- 


ITS  INHABITANTS.  157 

vered  by  the  inquisitive  eye  of  man,  and  many  more  that 
remain  among  the  secrets  of  the  hoary  deep. 

Here  are  shoals  and  shoals  of  various  characters,  and  of 
the  most  diversified  sizes,  from  the  cumbrous  whale  whose 
flouncing  tempests  the  ocean,  to  the  evanescent  anchovy, 
whose  substance  dissolves  in  the  smallest  fricassee.  Some, 
lodged  in  their  pearly  shells,  and  fattening  on  their  rocky- 
beds,  seem  attentive  to  no  higher  employ  than  that  of  imbi- 
bing moist  nutriment.  These,  but  a  small  remove  from 
vegetable  life,  are  almost  rooted  on  the  rock  on  which  they 
lie  reposed  ;  while  others,  active  as  the  winged  creation,  and 
swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  Indian  bow,  shoot  along  the 
yielding  flood,  and  range  at  large  the  spacious  regions  of  the 
deep. 

In  this  region  is  the  tortoise,  who  never  moves  but  un- 
der her  own  penthouse— -the  lobster,  which,  whether  he 
sleeps  or  wakes,  is  still  in  a  state  of  defense,  and  clad  in  joint- 
ed armour — the  oyster,  a  sort  of  living  jelly,  ingarrisoned  in 
a  bulwark  of  native  stone,— with  many  other  kinds  of  sea 
reptiles,  or,  as  the  Psalmist  speaks — "  Things  creeping  innu- 
merable." How  surprising  are  the  varieties  of  their  figure, 
and  charming  the  splendor  of  their  colors. 

Unsearchable  is  the  wisdom,  and  endless  the  contrivance, 
of  the  all-creating  God  !  Some  are  rugged  in  their  form,  and 
little  better  than  hideous  ia  their  aspect ;  their  shells  seem  to 
be  the  rude  production  of  a  disorderly  jumble,  rather  than  the 
regular  effects  of  skill  and  design  ;  yet  we  shall  find  even  in 
these  seeming  irregularities,  the  nicest  dispositions.  Their 
abodes,  uncouth  as  they  may  appear,  are  adapted  to  the 
genius  of  their  respective  tenants,  and  exactly  suited  to  their 
particular  exigences.  Neither  the  Ionic  delicacy,  nor  the 
Corinthian  richness,  nor  any  other  order  of  architecture, 
would  have  served  their  purpose  half  so  well  as  their  coarse 
and  homely  fabric. 

Some,  on  the  other  hand,  are  extremely  neat.  Their 
structure  is  all  symmetry  and  elegance.  No  enamel  in  the 
world  is  comparable  to  their  polish.  There  is  not  a  room  of 
state  in  all  the  palaces  of  Europe,  so  brilliantly  adorned,  as 
the  dining-room  nd  bed-ehamber  of  the  little  fish  that  dwells 
in  the  mother  of  pearl.  Such  a  lovely  mixture  of  red,  and 
blue,  and  green,  so  delightfully  staining  the  most  clear  and 
glittering  ground,  is  nowhere  else  to  be  seen.  The  royal 
power  may  covet  it,  and  human  art  may  mimic  it ;  but 


158  DESCRIPTION  OF 


neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  nor  both  united,  will  ever  be 
able  to  equal  it. 

But  what  we  admire  more  than  all  their  streaks,  their 
spots,  and  their  embroidery,  is  the  extraordinary  provision 
made  for  their  safety.  Nothing  is  more  relishing  and  palata- 
ble than  their  flesh.  Nothing  more  heavy  and  sluggish  than 
their  motions.  As  they  have  no  speed  to  escape,  neither^ 
have  they  any  dexterity  to  elude  the  foe.  Were  they  naked 
or  unguarded,  they  must  be  an  easy  prey  to  every  freebooter 
that  roams  the  ocean. 

To  prevent  this  fatal  consequence,  what  is  only  cloth- 
ing to  other  animals,  is  to  them  a  clothing,  a  house,  and  a, 
castle.  They  have  a  fortification  that  grows  with  thejr 
growth,  and  is  part  of  themselves.  By  this  means  they  live 
secure  amidst  millions  and  millions  of  ravenous  jaws  ;  by 
this  means  they  are  impraked  as  it  were  in  their  own  shell  j 
and,  screened  from  every  other  assault,  are  reserved  for  trie 
use  and  pleasure  of  mankind. 

How  admirable  is  the  ordination  of  that  great  Being 
who  thus  causeth  all  to  minister  together  for  good,  and  who 
while  he  protects  the  most  defenceless,  provides  for  the  plea- 
sures of  the  most  distinguished  of  his  creatures.  "  Thy 
tender  mercies  are  over  all  thy  works,  O  Lord !  and  thou 
neglectest  nought  thou  hast  made."  Enficld. 


Description  of  Jerusalem  and  the  surrounding  country, 

ALTHOUGH  the  size  of  Jerusalem  was  not  extensive,  it^ 
very  situation,  on  the  brink  of  rugged  hills,  encircled  by 
(Jeep  and  wild  valleys,  bounded  by  eminences  whose  sides 
were  covered  with  groves  and  gardens,  added  to  its  numerous 
powers  and  temples,  must  have  given  it  a  singular  and  gloomy 
magnificence,  scarcely  possessed  by  any  other  city  in  the 
world. 

The  most  yjleasing  feature  in  the  scenery  around  the, 
city  is  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  Passing  out  of  the  gate 
of  St.  Stephen,  you  descend  the  hill  to  the  torrent  of  Kedron^ 
a  bridge  leads  over  its  dry  and  deep  bed  :  it  must  have  been, 
a  very  narrow,  though,  in  winter  a  rapid  stream.  On  the 
left  is  a  grotto,  handsomely  fitted  up,  and  called  the  tomb 
of  the  Virgin  Mary,  though  it  is  well  known  she  neither 
died  nor  was  buried  near  Jerusalem. 

A  few  steps  beyond  the  Kedron  you  come  to  the  garden 


JERUSALEM4&C.  159 


of  Gethsemane,  of  all  gardens  the  most  interesting  and  hal 
lowed;  but  how  neglected  and  decayed  !  It  is  surrounded  by 
a  kind  of  low  hedge  ;  but  the  soil  is  bare  ;  no  verdure  grows 
on  it,  save  six  fine  venerable  olive-trees,  which  have  stood 
here  for  many  centuries.  This  spot  is  at  the  foot  of  Olivet, 
and  is  beautifully  situated;  you  look  up  and  down  the  ro- 
mantic valley;  close  behind  rises  the  mountain;  before  you 
are  the  walls  of  the  devoted  city. 

While  lingering  here,  at  evening,  and  solitary, — for  it  is 
not  often  a  footstep  passes  by, — that^night  of  sorrow  and  dis- 
may rushes  on  the  imagination,  when  the  Redeemer  was 
betrayed  and  forsaken  by  all,  even  by  the  loved  disciple.— 
Hence  the  path  winds  up  the  Mount  of  Olives:  it  is  a  beau- 
tiful hill :  the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  "  the  mountains  around 
Jerusalem,"  must  not  be  literally  applied,  as  none  are  within 
view  save  those  of  Arabia.  It  is  verdant,  and  covered  in 
some  parts  with  olive-trees. 

From  the  summit  you  enjoy  an  admirable  view  of  the 
city:  it  is  beneath  and  very  near:  and  looks,  with  its  valleys 
around  it,  exactly  like  a  panorama.  Its  noble  temple  of 
Omar,  and  large  area  planted  witb  palms  ;  its  narrow  streets, 
ruined  palaces  and  towers,  are  all  laid  out  before  you.  On 
the  summit  are  the  remains  of  a  church,  built  by  the  Em- 
press Helena;  and  in  a  small  edifice  containing  one  large, 
and  lofty  apartment,  is  shown  the  print  of  the  last  footstep  of 
t/hrist  when  he  took  his  leave  of  earth. 

The  fathers  should  have  placed  it  nearer  to  Bethany, 
in  order  to  accord  with  the  account  given  us  in  Scripture; 
but  it  answers  the  purpose  of  drawing  crowds  of  pilgrims  to 
the  spot.  Descending  Olivet  to  the  narrow  valley  of  Jeho- 
shaphat,  you  soon  come  to  the  pillar  of  Absalom :  it  has  a 
very  antique  appearance,  and  is  a  pleasing  object  in  the  val- 
ley :  it  is  of  a  yellow  stone,  adorned  with  half  columns,  form- 
ed into  three  stages,  and  terminates  in  a  cupola. 

The  tomb  of  Zecharias,  adjoining,  is  square,  with  four 
or  five  pillars,  and  is  cut  out  of  the  rock.  Near  these  is  a 
sort  of  grotto,  hewn  out  of  an  elevated  part  of  the  rock, 
with  four  pillars  in  front,  which  is  said  to  have  been  the  apos- 
tles' prison  at  the  time  they  were  .confined  by  the  rulers. 
The  small  and  wretched  village  o,f  Siloa  is  built  on  the  rug- 
ged sides  of  the  hill  above  ;  and  just  here  the  valleys  of 
Hinnom  and  Jehoshaphat  meet,  at  the  south-east  corner  of 
Mount  Zion:  they  are  both  sprinkled  with  olive-trees. 

Over  the  ravine   of  Hinrioni,  and  directly  opposite  the 


ItiO  DESCRIPTION  OF 


city,  is  the  mount  of  Judgment,  or  of  evil  counsel ;  because 
there  they  say  the  rulers  took  counsel  against  Christ,  and 
the  palace  of  Caiaphas  stood.  It  is  a  broad  and  barren  hill, 
without  any  of  the  picturesque  beauty  of  Olivet,  though 
loftier.  On  its  side  is  pointed  out  the  Aceldama,  or  field 
where  Judas  hung  himself :  a  small  and  rude  edifice  stands 
on  it,  and  it  is  used  as  a  burying-place. 

But  the  most  interesting  portion  of  this  hill,  is  where1 
its  rocks  descend  precipitously  into  the  valley  of  Hinnom. 
and  are  mingled  with  many  a  straggling  olive-tree.  All 
these  rocks  are  hewn  into  sepiilchers  of  various  forms  and 
sizes :  no  doubt  they  were  the  tombs  of  the  ancient  Jews, 
and  are  in  general  cut  with  considerable  care  and  skilL 
They  are  often  the  resting-place  of  the  benighted  passenger. 
Some  of  them  open  into  inner  apartments,  and  are  provided 
with  small  windows,  or  apertures,  cut  in  the  rock. 

In  these  there  is  none  of  the  darkness  or  sadness  of* 
the  tomb;  but  in  many,  so  elevated  and  picturesque  is  the 
situation,  a  traveler  may  pass  hours,  with  a  book  in  his  hand, 
while  valley  and  hill  are  beneath  and  around  him.  Before 
the  door  of  one  lanje  sepulcher  stood  a  tree  on  the  brink  off 
the  rock ;  the  sun  was  going  down  on  Olivet  on  the  right, 
and  the  resting-place  of  the  dead  commanded  a  sweeter 
scene,  than  any  of  the  abodes  of  the"  living. 

Many  of  the  tombs  have  flights  of  steps  leading  up  to 
them  :  it  was  in  one  of  these  that  a  celebrated  traveler  would 
fix  the  site  of  the  holy  sepulcher:  it  is  certainly  more  pictu- 
resque, but  why  more  just  is  hard  to  conceive;  since  the 
words  of  Scripture  do  not  fix  the  identity  of  the  sacred  tomb 
to  any  particular  spot,  and  tradition,  on  so  memorable  an 
occasion  could  hardly  err.  The  fathers  declare,  it  long  since 
became  absolutely  necessary  to  cover  the  native  rock  with 
marble,  in  order  to  prevent  the  pilgrims  from  destroying  it^ 
in  their  zeal  to  carry  off  pieces  to  their  homes;  and  on  this 
point  their  relation  may,  one  would  suppose,  be  believed. 

The  valley  of  Hinnom  now  turns  to  the  west  of  the 
city,  and  extends  rather  beyond  the  north  wall:  here  the 
plain  of  Jeremiah  commences,  and  is  the  best  wooded  tract 
in  the  whole  neighborhood.  In  this  direction,  but  farther 
on,  the  historian  of  the  siege  speaks  "of  a  tower,  that  af- 
forded a  prospect  of  Arabia  at  sun-rising,  and  of  the  utmost 
limits  of  the  Hebrew  possessions  at  the  sea  westward."  The 
former  is  still  enjoyed  from  the  city;  but  the  latter  could 
only  be  had  at  a  much  greater  distance  north,  where  there  is 
no  hill  in  front. 


JERUSALEM,  &c.  161 

About  half  a  mile  from  the  wp\\  are  the  tombs  of  the 
kings.  In  the  midst  of  a  hollow,  rocky  and  adorned  with  a 
few  trees,  is  the  entrance  :  you  then  find  a  large  apartment, 
above  fifty  feet  long,  at  the  side  of  which  a  low  door  leads 
into  a  series  of  small  chambers,  in  the  walls  of  which  are  se- 
veral deep  recesses,  hewn  out  of  the  rock,  of  the  size  of  the 
human  body.  There  are  six  or  seven  of  these  low  and  dark 
apartments,  one  or  two  of  which  are  adorned  with  vine- 
leaves  and  clusters  of  grapes. 

Many  parts  of  the  stone  coffins,  beautifully  ornamented 
in  the  Saracenic  manner,  are  strewed  on  the  floor:  it  would 
seem  that  some  hand  of  ravage  had  broken  them  to  pieces, 
with  the  view  of  finding  something  valuable  within.  The  se- 
pulchers  of  the  judges,  so  called,  are  situated  in  a  wild  spot, 
about  two  miles  from  the  city.  They  bear  much  resemblance 
to  those  of  the  kings,  but  are  not  so  handsome  or  spacious. 

Returning  to  the  foot  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  you  pro- 
ceed up  the  vale  of  Jehoshaphat  on  a  line  with  the  plain:  it 
widens  as  you  advance,  and  is  more  thickly  sprinkled  with 
olives.  When  arrived  at  the  hill  in  which  it  terminates,  the 
appearance  of  the  city  and  its  environs  is  rich  and  magni- 
ficent; and  you  cannot  help  thinking  that  were  an  English 
party  suddenly  transported  here,  they  would  not  believe  it 
was  the  sad  and  dreary  Jerusalem  they  were  gazing  on. 

This  is  the  finest  point  to  view  it  from  :  for  its  nume-1 
rous  minarets  and  superb  mosque,  are  seen  to  great  advan-> 
tage  over  the  trees  of  the  plain  and  valley,  and  the  foreground 
is  verdant  and  cultivated.  One  or  two  houses  of  the  Turks 
stood  in  this  spot,  and  we  had  trespassed  on  the  rude  garden 
of  one  of  them,  where  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree  invited 
us  to  linger  over  the  prospect. 

The  climate  of  the  city  and  country  is  in  general  very 
healthy.  The  elevated  position  of  the  former,  and  the  nume-1 
rous  hills  which  cover  the  greater  part  of  Palestine,  must  con- 
duce greatly  to  the  purity  of  the  air.  One  seldom  sees  a  coun^ 
try  overrun  with  hills  in  the  manner  this  is:  in  general  they 
are  not  in  ranges,  but  more  or  less  isolated,  and  of  a  pic'.u- 
resque  form.  Few  of  them  approach  to  the  character  of 
mountains,  save  Carmel,  the  Quarantina,  the  shores  of  the 
lakes,  and  those  which  bound  the  valley  of  tho  Jordan. 

To  account  for  the  existence  of  so  largie  a  population 
in  the  promised  lands,  the  numerous  hills  must  have  been  en- 
tirely cultivated  :  at  present,  their  appearance  on  the  sides 
and  summits,  is  for  the  most  part  bare  and  rocky.  In  old 


162  DESCRIPTION  OF 


time,  thy/  were  probably  formed  into  terraces,  as  is  now 
seen  on  the  few  cultivated  ones,  where  the  vine,  olive,  and 
fig-tree  flourish. 

High  up  the  rocky  side  of  a  hill,  on  the  left  of  the  wil- 
derness, and  amidst  a  profusion  of  trees,  is  the  cave  or  grotto 
of  St.  John.  A  fountain  gushes  out  close  by.  When  we  talk 
of  wildernesses,  mountains,  and  plains,  in  Palestine,  it  is  to 
be  understood,  that  they  seldom  answer  to  the  size  of  the  same 
objects  in  more  extensive  countries  ;  that  they  sometimes  pre- 
sent but  a  beautiful  miniature  of  them.  It  certainly  deserved 
the  term,  given  by  the  Psalmist  to  the  city,  of  being  a  "  com- 
pact" country. 

From  the  east  end  of  this  wilderness,  you  enter  the  fa- 
mous valley  of  Elah,Xvhere  Goliah  was  slain  by  the  cham- 
pion of  Israel.  It  is  a  pretty  and  interesting  spot :  the  bot- 
tom covered  with  olive-trees.  Its  present  appearance  answers 
exactly  to  the  description  given  in  Scripture;  the  two  hills, 
on  which  the  armies  stood  entirely  confining  it  on  the  right 
and  left. 

The  valley  is  not  above  half  a  mile  broad.  Tradition 
was  not  required  to  identify  this  spot;  nature  has  stamped  it 
with  everlasting  features  of  truth.  The  brook  still  flows 
through  it  in  a  winding  course,  from  which  David  look  the 
smooth  stones;  the  hills  are  not  precipitous,  but  slope  gra- 
dually down  ;  and  the  vale  is  varied  with  banks  and  undula- 
tions,0 and  not  a  single  habitation  is  visible  in  it. 

At  the  south-east  of  Zioh,  in  the  vale  of  Jehoshaphat,' 
they  say  the  gardens  of  Solomon  stood,  and  also  on  the  sides 
of  the  hill  adjoining  that  of  Olivet.  It  was  not  a  bad,  though 
rather  a  confined  site  for  them.  The  valley  here  is  covered 
with  a  rich  verdure,  divided  by  hedges  into  a  number  of  small 
gardens.  A  mean-looking  village  stands  on  the  rocky  side  of 
the  hill  above.  Not  a  single  palm-tree  is  to  be  seen  in  the 
whole  territory  around,  where  once  every  eminence  was  co- 
vered with  them. 

The  roads  leading  to  the  city  are  bad,  except  to  the 
north,  being  the  route  to  Damascus ;  but  the  supplies  of  wood, 
and  other  articles  for  building  the  temple,  must  have  come 
by  another  way  than  the  near  and  direct  one  from  Jaffa, 
which  is  impassable  for  burthens  of  a  large  size,  from  the 
defiles  and  rocks  amidst  which  it  is  carried  ;  the  circuitous 
routes  by  land  from  Tyre  or  Acre  were  probably  used. 

The  Turk,  who  is  chief  of  the  guard  that  keeps  watch 
at  the  entrance  of  the  sacred  church,  waited  oil  us  two  of 


JERUSALEM,  &c.  168 


three  times;  he  is  a  very  fine  and  dignified  looking  man,  and 
ensured  us  entrance  at  all  hours,  which  permission  we 
availed  ourselves  of  to  pass  another  night  amidst  its  hallow- 
ed scenes,  with  interest  and  pleasure  but  little  diminished. 

We  chose  a  delightful  morning  for  a  walk  to  Bethany. 
The  path  leads  up  the  side  of  Olivet,  by  the  very  way  which 
our  Savior  is  said  to  have  descended,  in  his  last  entry  into 
Jerusalem.  At  a  short  distance  are  the  ruins  of  the  village  of 
Bethphage  ;  and  half  a  mile  farther  is  feethany.  The  dis- 
tance is  about  two  miles  from  the  city.  The  village  is  beau- 
tifully situated;  and  the  ruins  of  the  house  of  Lazarus  are 
still  shown,  and  do  credit  to  the  srood  father's  taste. 

The  condition  of  the  Jews  in  Palestine  is  more  inse- 
cure, and  exposed  to  insult  and  exaction,  than  in  Egypt  and 
in  Syria,  from  the  frequent  lawless,  and  oppressive  conduct 
of  the  governors  and  chiefs.  These  distant  pachalics  are  less 
under  the  control  of  the  Porte  ;  and  in  Egypt  the  subjects 
of  Mahmoud  enjoy  a  more  equitable  and  quiet  government, 
than  in  any  other  part  of  the  empire.  There  is  little  national 
feeling  or  enthusiasm  among  them;  though  there  are  some 
exceptions,  where  these  exist  in  an  intense  degree.  In  the 
city  they  appear  fearful  and  humbled;  for  the  contempt  iri 
which  they  are  held  by  the  Turks  is  excessive,  and  they 
often  go  poorly  clad  to  avoid  exciting  suspicion. 

Yet  it  is  an  interesting  sight  to  meet  with  a  Jew,  wan- 
dering with  his  staff  in  his.  hand,  and  a  venerable  beard 
sweeping  his  bosom,  in  the  rich  and  silent  plain  of  Jericho, 
on  the  sides  of  his  native  mountains,  or  on  the  banks  of  the 
ancient  river  Kishon,  where  the  arm  of  the  mighty  was 
withered  in  the  battle  of  the  Lord.  Did  a  spark  of  the  love! 
of  his  country  warm  his  heart,  his  feeling  must  be  exquisite: 
—Out  his  spirit  is  suited  to  his  condition. 

Letters  from  th^  East. 


164  AMERICA  TO  GREAT  BRITAIN. 


America  to  Great  Britain. 

ALL  hail !  thou  noble  land, 

.  Our  fathers'  native  soil ! 
0  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 

Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore ; 
For  thou,  with  magic  might, 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er ! 

The  genius  of  our  clime, 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  great  sublime  ; 

While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim. 

Then  let  the  world  combine — 

O'er  the  main  our  naval  line, 

Like  the  milky-way,  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame  ! 

Though  ages  long  have  pass'd 

Since  our  fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untravell'd  seas  to  roam, — 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins  ! 

And  shall  we  not  proclaim 

That  blood  of  honest  fame, 

Which  no  tyranny  can  tamo 
By  its  chains  1 

While  the  language  of  the  free  and  bold 

Which  the  bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In  which  our  MILTON  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung, 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host  ? 

While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 

Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 

From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ; 

While  the  manners,  while  the  artb, 

That  mould  a  nation:s  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, 

Between  let  ocean  roll, 


THE  BUCKET.  165 


Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  sun  ; 
Yet,  still,  from  either  beach, 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"We  are  one !" 


The  Bucket 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood ! 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view  ; 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep  tangled  wild  wood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew ; 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron  bound  bucket, 
The  moss-cover'd  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

The  moss-cover'd  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure, 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an' exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and   sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 

How  quick  to  the  white  pebbled  bottom  it  fell, 
Then  soon  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-cover'd  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ; 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 

Though  fill'd  with  the  nectar  that  JUPITER  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

A  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  winch  han«;s  in.  Ms  well- 


LOVE. 

Love. 

WHEN  the  tree-  of  love  is  budding  first, 

Ere  yet  its  leaves  are  green, 
pre  yet,  by  shower  and  sunbeam  nurst 

Its  infantile  life  has  been  ; 
The  wild  bee's  slightest  touch  might  wring 

The  buds  from  off  the  tree, 
As  the  gentle  dip  of  the  swallow's  wing 

Breaks  the  bubbles  on  the  sea. 

But  when  its  open  leaves  have  found 

A  home  in  the  free  air, 
Pluck  them  and  there  remains  a  wound 

That  ever  rankles  there. 
The  blight  of  hope  and  happiness 

Is  felt  when  fond  ones  part, 
And  the  bitter  tear  that  follows  is 

The  life-blood  of  the  heart. 

When  the  flame  of  love  is  kindled  first, 

'Tis  the  fire-fly's  light  at  even, 
'Tis  dim  as  the  wandering  stars  that  burst; 

In  the  blue  of  the  suinmer  heaven. 
A  breath  can  bid  it  burn  no  more, 

Or  if,  at  times,  its  beams 
Come  on  the  memory,  they  pass  o'er, 

Like  shadows  in  ou,r  dreams. 

But  when  that  flame  hag  blazed  intp 

A  being  and  a  power, 
And  smiled  in  scorn  uppn  the  de\y 

That  fell  in  its  first  warrn.  hour, 
'Tis  the  flame  that  curls  round  the  martyr's  head, 

Whose  task  is  tp  destroy  ; 
'Tis  the  lamp  on  the  altars  of  the  dead, 

Whose  light  but  darkens  joy  ! 

Then  crush  even  in  the  hour  of  birth, 

The  infant  buds  of  Love, 
And  tread  his  glowing  fire  to  earth, 

Ere  'tis  dark  in  clouds  above  • 
Cherish  no  more  a  cypress  tree 

To  shade  thy  future  years, 
Nor  nurse  a  heart-flame  that  may  be 

Quench' d  only  with  thy  tears. 


PSALM  OF  LIFE.  167 


The  Fall  of  Niagara. 

THE  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 

While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 

As  if  God  pour'd  thee  from  his  "hollow  hand," 

And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front  ; 

And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seem'd  to  him. 

Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Savior's  sake, 

u  The  sound  of  many  waters ;"  and  had  bade 

Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 

And  notch  His  centuries  in  the  eternal  rock. 

Deep  cal)eth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ?• 
0  !  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side  ! 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 
In  his  short  life  to  thine  unceasing  roar! 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  Him 
Who  drown'd  a  world  and  heaped  the  waters,  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  1 — a  light  wave, 
That  breaks  and  whispers  pf  its  Maker's  might. 


A  Psalm  of  Life. 

TELL  me  not  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  } 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long  and  time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 
Still,  like  mufled  drums,  are  beating 

Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 


168  ITALY. 


In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act — act  in  the  living  present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And.  departing  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  ship  wreck' d  brother, 
Seeing,  shalltake  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

Italy. 

A  CALM  and  lovely  paradise 

Is  Italy,  for  minds  at  ease. 
The  sadness  of  its  sunny  skies 

Weighs  not  upon  the  lives  of  these. 
The  ruin'd  aisle,  the  crumbling  fane, 

The  broken  column,  vast  and  prone — 
It  may  be  joy,  it  may  be  pain, 

Amid  such  wrecks  to  walk  alone  j 
The  saddest  men  will  sadder  be, 

The  gentlest  lover  gentler  there, 
As  if,  what'er  the  spirit's  key, 

It  strengthen'd  in  that  solemn  air. 

The  heart  soon  grows  to  mournful  things 

And  Italy  has  not  a  breeze 
But  comes  on  melancholy  wings. 

And  even  in  her  majestic  trees 
Stand  ghost-like  in  the  Caesars'  home, 

As  if  their  conscious  roots  were  set 


THE  HARE  AND  MANY  FRIENDS.  169 


In  the  graves  of  gianf'Rome. 

And  drn\v  their  snp.  all  kingly  yet 
And  every  stone  your  foot  beneath 

*o  .  .w.    ..  .,>,_  ...,ti,,  lii.gtiu'  thought, 
And  sculptures  in  the  duft  still  breathe 

The  fire  with  which  their  lines  were  wrought, 
And  sunder' d  arch  and  plunder'd  tomb 

Still  thunder  back  the  echo,  uRome  !" 

Yet  gaily  o'er  Egeria's  fount 

The  ivy  flings  its  emerald  veil, 
And  flowers  grow  fair  on  Numa's  mount, 

And  light-sprung  arches  s^pan  the  dale, 
And  soft,  from  Caracalla's  Baths, 

The  herdsman's  song  comes  down  the  breeze, 
While  climb  his  goats  the  giddy  paths  ' 

To  grass-grown  architrave  and  frieze  J 
And  gracefully  Albano's  hill 

Curves  ir;to  the  horizon's  line, 
And  sweetly  sings  that  classic  rill, 

And  fairly  stands  that  nnmelees  shrine  j 
And  here,  0,  many  a  sultry  noon 
And  starry  eve,  that  happy  June, 

Came  ANGELO  and  MELANE, 
And  earth  for  us  was  all  in  tune — 
For  w' :I     r~<--  talk'd  with  them,  Hope  walk'd  apart 
with  me  ! 


Charity. 

SOFT  peace  she  brings  wherever  she  arrives, 
She  builds  our  quiet  as  she  forms  our  lives; 
Lays  the  rough  path  of  pevish  nature  even, 
And  opens  in  each  breast  a  little  heaven. 


The  Hare  and  many  Friends. 

FRIENDSHIP  in  truth  is  but  a  name, 
Unless  to  few  we  stint  the  flame. 
The  child,  whom  many  fathers  share, 
Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 
11 


170  THE  HARE  AND  MANY  FRIENDS. 


JTis  thus  in  friendship;  who  depend 
On  many,  rarely-  find  a  friend. 
,  A  hare,  who  in  a  civil  way, 
Complied  with  every  thing  like  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train, 
Who  haunt  the  woods,  or  graze  the  plain. 
Her  care  was  never  to  offend  ; 
And  ev'ry  creature  was  her  friend. 

As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn,   ' 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn, 
Behind  she  hears  the  hunter's  cries, 
And  from  deep-mouthed  thunder  flies. 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath  ; 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death; 
She  doubles  to  mislead  the  hound, 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  round, 
Till,  fainting  in  the  public  way, 
Half-dead  with  fear  she  gasping  lay. 

What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew, 
When  first  the  horse  appear'd  in  view ! 
"Let  me,"  says  she,  "your  back  ascend, 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight ; 
To  friendship  ev'ry  burthen's  light." 

The  horse  replied,— "Poor  honest  puss  T 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  thee  thus : 
Be  comforted,  relief  is  near  ; 
For  all  your  friends  are  in  the  rear." 

She  next  the  stately  bull  implor'dj 
And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord  ; — 
•'  Since  ev'ry  beast  alive  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may,  without  offense,  pretend 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. — 
To  }eave  you  thus  might  seem  unkind  ; 
But  see,  the  goat  is  just  behind." 

The  goat  remark'd  her  pulse  was  high 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye, — 
"  My  back,"  says  he,  "  may  do  you  harm  ; 
The  sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm." 
The  sheep  was  feeble,  and  complain'd 
His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustain'd  ; 
Said  he  was  slow,  confess'd  his  fears  ; 
For  hounds  eat  sheep  as  well  as  hares. 

She  now  the  trotting  calf  address'd, 
Tw  sa>«  ~  i'i-om  a*  eu  a  ;rienu  distress  a. 


THE  AFRICAN  CHIEF.  171 

"  Shall  I,"  says  he,  "of  tender  age, 
In  this  important  care  engage  ? 
Older  and  abler  pass'd  you  by  : 
How  strong  are  those  !  how  weak  am  I ! 
Should  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence, 
Those  friends  of  mine  might  take  offense. 
Excuse  me  then  :  you  know  my  heart, 
But  dearest  friends,  alas  !  must  part. 
How  shall  we  ail  lament! — Adieu! 
For,  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view." 


The  African  Chief. 

CHAINED  in  the  market  place  he  stood, 

A  man  of  giant  frame, 
Amid  the  gathering  multitude 

That  shrunk  to  hear  his  name. 
All  stern  of  look  and  strong  of  limb, 

His  dark  eye  on  the  ground ; 
And  silently  they  gazed  on  him 

As  on  a  lion  bound. 

Vainly,  but  well,  that  chief  had  fought 

He  was  a  captive  now : — 
Yet  pride,  that  fortune  humbles  not, 

Was  written  on  his  brow, 
The  scars  his  dark  broad  bosom  worr 

Showed  warrior  true  and  brave : 
A  prince  among  his  tribe  before, 

He  could  not  be  a  slave. 

Then  to  his  conqueror  he  spake — 

"My  brother  is  a  king; 
Undo  this  necklace  from  my  neck,     - 

And  take  this  bracelet  ring ; 
And  send  me  where  my  brother  reigna 

And  I  will  fill  thy  hands 
With  store  of  ivory  from  the  plains, 

And  guld  dust  from  the  sands." 
Not  for  thy  ivory  nor  thy  gold 

Will  I  unbind  thy  chains; 
That  bloody  hand  shall  never  hold 

The  battle  spear  again. 
A  price  thy  nation  never  gave, 

Shall  yet  be  paid  for  thee  ; 
For  tDou  snalt  be  the  Christian's  slave, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea." 


172 SACRIFICE  OF  ABRAHAM. 

Then  spoke  the  warrior  chief,  and  Dade 

To  shred  his  locks  away  ; 
And,  one  by  one,  each  heavy  braid 

Before  the  victor  lay. 
Thick  were  the  plaited  locks  and  long, 

And  deftly  hidden  there, 
Shone  many  a  wedge  of  gold  among 

The  dark  and  crisped  hair. 

"  Look !  feast  thy  greedy  eyes  with  gold, 

Long  kept  for  sorest  need : 
Take  it,  thou  askest  sums  untold, 

And  say  that  I  am  freed. 
Take  it — my  wife,  the  long,  long  day, 

Weeps  by  the  cocoa-tree  : 
And  my  young  children  leave  their  play, 

And  ask  in  vain  for  me." 

"  I  take  thy  gold  ;  but  I  have  made 

Thy  fetters  fast  and  strong  ; 
And  ween  that  by  the  cocoa  shade 

Thy  wife  shall  wait  thee  long." 
Strong  was  the  agony  that  shook 

The  captive's  frame  to  hear ; 
And  the  proud  meaning  of  his  look 

Was  changed  to  mortal  fear. 

His  heart  was  broken — crazed  his  brain ; 

At  once  his  eye  grew  wild  : 
He  struggled  fiercely  with  his  chain, 

Whispered,  and  wept,  and  smiled  ! 
Yet  wore  not  long  those  fatal  b&nds  j 

And  once  at  shut  of  day, 
They  drew  him  forth  upon  the  sand, 

The  foul  hyena's  prey.  Bryant. 


The  Sacrifice  of  Abraham. 

MORN  breaketh  in  the  east.  The  purple  clouds 
Are  putting  on  their  gold  and  violet, 
To  look  the  meeter  for  the  sun's  bright  coming. 
Sleep  is  upon  the  waters  and  the  wind; 
And  nature  from  the  wary  forest-leaf 
To  her  majestic  master,  sleeps.     As  yet 
There  is  no  mist  upon  the  deep  blue  sky, 
And  the  clear  dew  is,  on  the  blushing  blossoms 
^  crimson  roses  in  a  holy  rest. 


SACRIFICE  OF  ABRAHAM.  173 

How  hallowed  is  the  hour  of  morning  !  meet, 
Aye — beautifully  meet  for  the  pure  prayer. 
The  patriarch  standeth  at  his  tented  door, 
With  his  white  locks  uncover'd.     'Tis  his  wont 
To  gaze  upon  the  gorgeous  orient; 
And  at  that  hour  the  awful  majesty 
Of  man  who  talketh  often  with  his  God, 
Is  wont  to  come  again  and  clothe  his  brow, 
As  at  his  fourscore  strength. 

But  now,  he  seemeth 
To  be  forgetful  of  his  vigorous  frame, 
And  boweth  to  his  staff  as  at  the  hour 
CM  noontide  sultriness.     And  that  bright  sun — 
He  looketh  at  his  pcncil'd  messengers, 
Coming  in  golden  raiment,  as  if  all 
Were  but  a  graven  scroll  of  fearfulness. 
Ah,  he  is  waiting  till  it  herald  in 
The  hour  to  sacrifica  his  much  lov'd  son ! 

Light  poureth  on  the  world.     And  Sarah  standsj 
Watching  the  steps  of  Abraham  and  her  child, 
Along  the  dewy  sides  of  the  far  hills, 
And  praying  that  her  sunny  boy  faint  not — 
Wduld  she  have  watched  their  paths  so  silently, 
If  she  had  known  that  he  was  going  up, 
Ev'n  in  his  fair  hair'd  beauty,  to  be  slain, 
As  a  white  lamb  for  sacrifice  ? 

They  trod 

Together  on  ward,  patriarch  and  child — 
The  bright  sun  throwing  back  the  old  man's  shade 
In  straight  and  fair  proportion,  as  of  one 
Whose  years  were  freshly  number'd.     He  stood  up, 
Even  in  his  vigorous  strength,  and  like  a  tree 
Rooted  in  Lebanon,  his  frame  bent  not  j 
His  thin,  white  hairs  had  yielded  to  the  wind, 
And  left  his  brow  uncover'd- ;  and  his  .face, 
Impress'd  with  the  stern  majesty  of  grief, 
Nerved  to  a  solem  duty,vnow  stood  forth 
Like  a  rent  rock,  submissive,  yet  sublime. 

But  the  young  boy — he  of  the  laughing  eye 
And  ruby  lip,  the  pride  of  life  was  on  him. 
He  seemed  to  drink  the  morning.     The  sun  and  dew, 
And  the  aroma  of  the  spicy  trees, 
And  all  that  giveth  the  delicious  east 
Its  fitness  for  an  Eden,  stole  like  light 
Into  his  spirit,  ravishing  his  thoughts 
With  love  and  beauty.     Every  thing  he  met, 


174  SACRIFICE  OF  ABRAHAM. 

Buoyant  or  beautiful,  the  lightest  wing 
Of  bird  or  insect,  or  the  palest  dye 
Of  the  fresh  flowers,  won  him  from  his  path, 
And  joyously  broke  forth  his  tiny  shout, 
As  he  flung  back  his  silken  hair,  and  sprung 
Away  to  some  green  spot,  or  clustering  vine, 
To  pluck  his  infant  trophies. 

Every  tree 

And  fragrant  shrub  was  a  new  hiding-place  j 
And  he  would  crouch  till  the  old  man  came  by, 
Then  bound  before  him  with  his  childish  laugh, 
Stealing  a  look  behind  him  playfully, 
To  see  if  he  had  made  his  father  smile. 

The  sun  rode  on  in  heaven.     The  dew  stole  up 
From  the  fresh  daughters  of  the  earth,  and  heat 
Came  like  asleep  upon  the  delicate  leaves, 
And  bent  them  with  blossoms  to  their  dreams. 
Still  trod  the  patriarch  on  with  that  same  step, 
Firm  and  unfaltering,  turning  not  aside 
To  seek  the  olive  shades,  or  lave  their  lips 
In  the  sweet  waters  at  the  Syrian  wells, 
Whose  gush  hath  so  much  music. 

Weariness 

Stole  on  the  gentle  boy,  and  he  forgot 
To  toss  the  sunny  hair  from  off  his  brow, 
And  spring  for  the  fresh  flowers  on  light  wing 
As  in  the  early  morning ;  but  he  kept 
Close  by  his  father's  side,  and  bent  his  head 
Upon  hn  bosom  like  a  drooping  bud, 
Lifting  it  not,  save  now  and  then  to  steal 
A  look  UD  to  that  face,  whose  sternness  awed 
His  childishness  to  silence. 

It  was  noon — 

And  Abraham  on  Moriah  bow'd  himself, 
And  buried  up  his  face,  and  pray'd  for  strength. 
,  He  could  not  look  upon  his  son  and  pray  ; 
But  with  his  hand  upon  the  clustering  curls 
Of  the  fair,  kneeling  boy,  he  pray'd  that  God 
Would  nerve  him  for  that  hour.     Oh  man  was  made 
For  the  stern  conflict.     In  a  mother's  love 
There  is  more  tenderness ;  the  thousand  cords 
Woven  with  every  fiber  of  her  heart, 
Complain,  like  delicate  harp-strings,  at  a  breath; 
But  love  in  man  is  one  deep  principle, 


EARLY  RISING.  175 


Which,  like  a  root  grown  in  a  rifted  rock, 
Abides  the  tempest. 

He  rose  up  and  laid 

The  wood  upon  the  altar.     All  was  done,        ithe 
He  stood  a  moment — and  a  deep,  quick  flush 
'Pass'd  o'er  his  countenance ;  and  then  he  nerv'd 
His  spirit  with  a  bitter  strength,  and  spoke — 
"Isaac     my  only  son*' — The  boy  look'd  up, 
And  Abraham  turned  his  face  away,  and  wept. 

"Where  is  the  lamh,  my  father?"— oh  the  tones, 
The  sweet,  the  thrilling  music  of  a  child ! 
How  it  doth  agonize  at  such  an  hour ! 
It  was  the  last,  deep  struggle — Abraham  held 
His  lov'd,  his  beautiful,  his  only  son, 
And  lifted  up  his  arm,  and  Call'd  on  God—- 
And lo!  God's  Angel  staid  him — and  he  fell 
Upon  his  face  and  wepu  Willis. 


PIECES. 

•On  Early  Rising. 

.  THE  breath  of  night's  destructive  to  the  hue 
Of  every  flower  that  blows.     Go  to  the  field, 
And  ask  the  humble  daisy  why  it  sleeps, 
Soon  as. the  sun  departs:  Why  close  the  eyes 
Of  blossoms  infinite,  ere  the  still  moon 
Her  oriental  veil  puts  off?  Think  why> 
Nor  let  the  sweetest  blossom  be  exposed 
That  nature  boasts,  to  nights  unkindly  damp: 
Well  may  it  droop,  and  all  its  freshness  lose, 
Compelled  to  taste  the  rank  and  poisonous  steam 
Of  midnight  theater,  and  morning  ball. 

Give  to  repose  the  solemn  hour  she  claims} 
And,  from  the  forehead  of  the  morning,  steal 
The  sweet  occasion.     0!  there  is  a  charm 
That  morning  has,  that  gives  the  brow  of  age 
A  smack  of  youth,  and  makes  the  lip  of  youth 
Breath  perfumes  exquisite.     Expect  it  not, 
Ye  who  till  noon  upon  a  down-bed  lie, 
Indulging  feverish  sleep,  or  wakeful  dream 
Of  happiness  no  mortal  heart  has  feltj 
But  in  the  regions  of  romance.. 


176  NATURE  AND  POETRY 


Ye  fair, 

Like  you  it  must  be  wooed,  or  never  won : 
And,  being  lost,  it  is  in  vain  ye  ask 
For  milk  of  roses  and  Olympian  dew. 
Cosmetick  art  no  tincture  can  afford, 
The  faded  features  to  restore:  no  cbain 
Be  it  of  gold,  and  strong  as  adamant, 
Can  fetter  beauty  to  the  fair  one's  will.  Hurdis. 


Nature  and  Poetry  favorable  to  virtue.— Humility  recom- 
mended in  judging  of  Ike  ways  of  Providence. 

-  O  NATURE,  how  in  every  charm  supreme! 
Whose  votaries  feast  on  raptures  ever  new 
O  for  the  voice  and  fire  of  seraphim, 
,To  sing  thy  glories  with  devotion  due  ! 
Blest -be  the  day  I  'scaped  the  wrangling  crew, 
From  Pyrrho's  maze,  and  Epicurus' -sty  ; 

And  held  high  converse  with  the  godlike  few, 
Who,  to  th'  enraptured  heart,  and  ear,  and  eye, 
Teach  beauty,  virtue,  truth,  and  love,  and  melody. 

Then  hail,  ye  mighty  masters  of  the  lay, 

Nature's  true  sons,  the  friends  of  man  and  truth! 
Whose  song,  sublimely  sweet,  serenely  gay, 

Amused  my  childhood,  and  informed  my  youth. 

O  let  your  spirit  still  my  bosom  soothe, 
Inspire  my  dreams,  and  my  wild  wanderings  guide: 

Your  voice  each  rugged  path  of  life  can  smooth, 
For  well  I  know  wherever  ye  reside, 
There  harmony,  and  peace,  and  innocence  abide. 

Ah  me!  neglected  on  the  lonesome  plain, 

As  yet  poor  Edwin  never  knew  your  lore; 
Save  when,  a'gainst  the  winter's  drenching  rain, 

And  driving  snow,  the  cottage  shut  the  door. 

Then,  as  instructed  by  tradition  hoar, 
Her  legend  when  the  beldam  'gan  impart, 

Or  chant  the  old  heroic  ditty  o'er, 
Wonder  and  joy  ran  thrilling  to  his  heart : 
Much  he  the  tale  admired,  but  more  the  tuneful  art. 

Various  and  strange  was  the  long-winded  tale; 
And  hails,  and  knights  and  feats  of  arms  displayed 
Or  merry  swains  who  quaff  the  nut-brown  ale, 
And  sing,  enamored  of  the  nut-brown  maid, 


FAVORABLE  TO  VIRTUE.  177 

The  moonlight  revel  of  the  fairy  glade, 
Or  hags  that  suckle  an  infernal  brood, 

And  ply  in  caves  th'  unutterable  trade/* 
'Midst  riends  and  specters,  quench  the  moon  in  blood, 
Yell  in  the  midnight  storm,  or  ride  th'  infuriate  flood. 

But  when  to  horror  his  amazement  rose, 

A  gentler  strain  the  beldam  would  rehearse, 
A  tale  of  rural  life,  a  tale  of  woes, 

The  orphan-babes,  and  guardian  uncle  fierce.t 

O  cruel !  will  no  pang  of  pity  pierce 
That  heart,  by  lust  of  lucre  seared  to  stone  ? 

For  sure,  if  aught  of  virtue  last,  or  verse, 
To  latest  times  shall  tender  souls  bemoan 
V  *vse  hopeless  orphan-babes,  by  thy  fell  arts  undone. 

Behold,  with  berries  smeared,  with  brambles  torn, 

The  babes  now  famished,  lay  them  down  to  die : 
Amidst  the  howl  of  darksome  woods  forlorn, 

Folded  in  one  another's  arms  they  lie ; 

Nor  friend,  nor  stranger,  hears  their  dying  cry  : 
"  For  from  the  town  the  man  returns  no  more." 

But  thou,  who  Heaven's  just  vengeance  dar'st  defy, 
This  deed,  with  fruitless  tears,  shall  soon  deplore, 
\Vv-sn  Death  lays  waste  thy  house,  and  flames  consume  thy 
store. 

A  stifled  smile  of  stern,  vindictive  joy. 
Brightened  one  moment  Edwin's  starting  tear: 

"But  why  should  gold  man's  feeble  mind  decoy y 
And  innocence  thus  die  by  doom  severe?7' 
O  Edwin  !  while  thy  heart  is  yet  sincere, 

Th'  assaults  of  discontent  and  doubt  repel: 

Dark,  even  at  noontide,  is  our  mortal  sphere  y        • 

JBut,  let  us  hope  ; — to  doubt  is  to  rebel ; — 
Let  *s  exolt  in  hope,  that  all  shall  yet  be  welL 

Nor  be  thy  generous  indignation  checked, 
Norcheck'd  the  tender  tear  to  Misery  given  ; 
From  Guilt's  contagious  power  shall  that  protect, 
This  soften  and  refine  the  soul  for  heaven. 
But  dreadful  is  their  doom  whom  doubt  has  driven 

•  Allusion  to  Shakspeare. 

Macbeth. — How  now,  ye  secret,  black,  and  midnight  haga, 

Whatis'tyedo? 
Witches.— A  deed  v/ithout  »  name. 

Macbeth.-Aet  IV.  Scene  I 

t  »*c  the  fine  old  ballad,  called  Tkt  CAttoran  m  ffe  ITM. 
11* 


178  HUMAN  FRAILTY. 


To  Censure  Fate,  and  pious  Hope  forego  : 

Like  yonder  blasted  boughs  by  lightning  riven, 
Perfection,  beauty,  life,  they  never  know, 
But  frown  on  all  that  pass,  a  monument  of  wo. 

S'nall  he,  whose  birth,  maturity,  and  age, 
Scarce  fill  the  circle  of  one  summer's  day, — 

Shall  the  poor  gnat,  with  discontent  and  rage, 
Exclaim  that  Nature  hastens  to  decay 
If  but  a  cloud  obscure  the  solar  ray, — : 

If  but  a  momentary  shower  descend! — 

Or  shall  frail  man  heaven's  high  decree  gainsay 

Which  bade  the  series  of  events  extend, 
Wide  through  unnumbered  worlds,  and  ages  without  end  ! 

One  part,  one  little  part,  we  dimly  scan, 
Through  the  dark  medium  of  life's  feverish  dream  ; 
Yet  dare  arraign  the  whole  stupendous  plan, 
If  but  that  little  part  incongruous  seem. 
Nor  is  that  part,  perhaps,  what  mortals  deem; 
Oft  from  apparent  ill  our  blessings  rise. 

O  then  renounce  that  impious  self-esteem, 
That  aims  to  trace  the  secrets  of  the  skies; 
Fx>r  thou  art  but  of  dust ; — be  humble,  and  be  wise. 

Beattie. 


Human  Frailty. 

WHAT  are  our  joys  but  dreams  ?  And  what  oinr  hopes 
But  goodly  shadows  in  the  summer  cloud  ? 
There's  not  a  wind  that  blows,  but  bears  with  it 
Some  rainbow  promise — Not  a  moment  flies, 
But  puts  its  sickle  in  the  fields  of  life, 
And  mows  its  thousands,  with  their  joys  and  cares. 
'Tis  but  as  yesterday,  since  on  yon  stars 
Which  now  I  view,  the  Chaldee  shepherd  gaz'd 
In  his  mid-watch,  observant,  and  dispos'd 
The  twinkling  hosts  as  fancy  gave  them  shape. 

Yet  in  the  interim,  what  mightly  shocks 
Have  buffeted  mankind — whole  nations  raz'd — 
Cities  made  desolate — the  polish'd  sunk 
To  barbarism,  and  once  barbaric  states 
Swaying  the  wand  of  science  and  of  art , 
Illustrious  deeds  and  memorable  names 
Blotted  from  record,  and  upon  the  tongue. 
Of  gray  tradition  voluble  no  more. 


HUMAN  FRAILTY.  179 

WThere  are  the  heroes  of  ages  past, —     , 
Where  the  brave  chieftains, — where  the  mighty  ones 
W'ho  flourished  in  the  infancy  of  days? — 
All  to  the  grave  gone  down  ! — On  their  fall'n  fam'is 
Exultant,  mocking  at  the  pride  of  man, 
Sits  grim  For  getf nines  s. — The  warrior's  arm 
Lies  nerveless  on  the  pillow  of  its  shame; 
Hush'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quench'd  the  blaie 
Of  his  red  eye-ball. 

Yesterday  his  name 

Was  mighty  on  the  earth— To-day— 'tis  wtiat? 
The  meteor  of  the  night  of  distant  years,       . 
That  flashM  unnoticM,  save  by  wrinkled  eld, 
Musing  at  midnight  upon  prophecies, 
Who  at  her  lonely  lattice  saw  the  gleam 
Point  to  the  mist-pois'd  shroud,  then  quietly 
Clos'd  her  pale  lips,  and  lock'd  the  secret  iif>, 
Safe  in  the  charnel's  treasures. 

O  how  weak 

Is  mortal  man  !  Ho,w  trifling— how  confin'd 
tlis  scope  of  vision! — Puff'd  with  confidence, 
His  phrase  grows  big  with  immortality  ; 
And  he,  poor  insect  of  a  summer's  day, 
Dreams  of  eternal  honors  to  his  name, — 
Of  endless  glory,  and  perennial  bays. 
He  idly  reasons  of  eternity, 
As  of  the  train  of  ages, — when,  alas  ! 
Ten  thousand  thousand  of  his  centuries 
Are,  in  comparison,  a  little  point, 
Too  trivial  for  account. 

O  it  is  strange, 

^Tis  parsing  strange,  to  mark  his  fallacies : 
Behold  him  proudly  view  some  pompous  pile 
Whose  high  dome  swells  to  emulate  the  skies, 
And  smile  and  say,  my  name  shall  live  with  this 
Till  Time  shall  he  no  more  ;— while  at  his  feet, 
Yea,  at  his  very  feet,  the  crumbling  dust 
Of  the  fall'n  fabric  of  the  other  day 
Preaches  the  solemn  lesson. 

He  should  know 

That  time  must  conquer, — that  the  loudest  blast 
That  ever  fill'd  Renown's  obstrep'rous  trump 
Fades  in  the  lapse  of  a*ges,  and  expires. 
Who  lies  inhum'd  in  the  terrific  gloom 
Of  the  gigantic  pyramid  ?  Or  who 
Rear'd  its  huge  wall  ?— Oblivion  laughs  anrf  sayi, 


180  HARVEST  HYMN. 


The  prey  is  mine.     They  sleep,  and  never  more 
Their  names  shall  strike  upon  the  ear  of  man  . 
Their  memory  burst  its  fetters. 

Where  is  Rome? — 
She  lives  hut  in  the  tale  of  other  times  ; 
Her  proud  pavilions  are  the  hermit's  home; 
And  her  long  colonnades,  her  public  walks, 
Now  faintly  echo  to  the  pilgrim's  feet, 
Who  comes  to  muse  in  solitude,  and  trace, 
Through  the  rank  moss  reveal'd,  her  honor'd  dust. 
But  not  to  Rome  alone  has  fate  confined 
The  doom  of  ruin  ;  ciiies  numberless — 
Tyre,  Siclon,  Carthage,  Babylon,  and  Troy, 
And  rich  Pho3nicia, — they  are  blotted  out, 
Half-raz'd  from  memory  ;  and  their  very  name 
And  being  in  dispute  ! 


Harvest  Hymn. 

GOD  of  the  year  ! — With  songs  of  praise, 
And  hearts  of  love,  we  come  to  bless 

Thy  bounteous  hand  ;  for  thou  hast  shed 
Thy  manna  o'er  the  wilderness: 

In  early  spring-time  thou  didst  fling 

O'er  earth  its  robe  of  blossoming; 

And  its  sweet  treasures,  day  by  day, 

Rose  quickening  in  the  blessed  ray. 

And  now  they  whiten  hill  and  vale, 

And  hang  from  every  vine  and  tree, 
Whose  pensile  branches,  bending  low, 

Seem'd  bowed  in  thankfulness  to  thee : 
The  earth,  with  all  its  purple  isles, 
Is  answering  to  the  genial  smiles ; 
And  gales  of  perfume  breathe  along, 
And  lift  to  thee  their  voiceless  song. 

God  of  the  seasons  !  Thou  hast  blest 
The  land  with  sunlight  and  with  showers; 

And  plenty  o'er  its  bosom  smiles, 
To  crown  the  sweet  Autumnal  hours: 

Praise,  praise  to  thee  !—  Our  hearts  expand 

To  view  the  blessings  of  thy  hand  ; 

And,  on  the  incense  breath  of  Love 

Go  off  to  their  bright  home  above.  ANON 


EDUCATION.  181 


Education. 

ALAS  !  what  differs  more  than  man  from  man ! 
And  whence  this  difference  ? — whence  but  from  himself? 
For,  see  the  universal  race,  endowed 
With  the  same  upright  form  !     The  sun  is  fixed, 
And  th'  infinite  magnificence  of  heaven, 
Within  the  reach  of  every  human  eye; 
The  sleepless  ocean  murmurs  in  all  ears; 
The  vernal  field  infuses  fresh  delight 
Into  all  hearts.     Throughout  the  world  of  sense, 
Even  as  an  object  is  sublime  or  fair, 
That  object  is  laid  open  to  the  view 
Without  reserve  or  veil;  and  as  a  power 
Is  salutary,  or  its  influence  sweet, 
Are  each  and  all  enabled  to  perceive 
That  power,  that  influence,  by  impartial  law. 

Gifts  nobler  are  vouchsafed  alike  to  all, 
Reason, — and,  with  that  reason,  smiles  and  tears, 
Imagination,  freedom  of  the  will, 
Conscience  to  guide  and  check,  and  death 
To  be  foretasted, — immortality  presumed. 
Strange  then,  nor  less  than  monstrous  migiht  be  deemeti 
The  failure,  if  th'  Almighty,  to  this  point 
Liberal  and  undistinguishing,  should  hide 
The  excellence  of  moral  qualities 
From  common  understanding, — leaving  truth 
And  virtue,  difficult,  abstruse  and  dark, 
Hard  to  be  won,  and  only  by  a  few  : — 
Strange,  should  he  deal  herein  with  nice  respects, 
And  frustrate  all  the  rest!     Believe  it  not: 
The  primal  duties  shine  aloft — like  stars; 
The  charities  that  soothe,  and  heal,  and  bless, 
Are  scattered  at  the  feet  of  man — like  flowers. 

The  generous  inclination,  the  just  rule, 
Kind  wishes,  and  good  actions,  and  pure  thoughts- 
No  mystery  is  here ;  no  special  boon 
For  high  and  not  for  low — for  proudly  graced 
And  not  for  meek  in  heart.     The  smoke  ascends 
To  heaven  as  lightly  from  the  cottage  hearth. 
As  from  the  haughty  palace.     He  whose  soul 
Ponders  its  true  equality,  may  walk 
The  fields  of  earth  with  gratitude  and  hope ; 
Yet  in  that  meditation  will  he  find 


182  EDUCATION. 


Motive  to  sadder  grief,  when  his  thoughts  turn 
From  nature's  justice,  to  the  social  wrongs 
That  make  such  difference  betwixt  man  and  man. 

Oh  for  the  coming  of  that  glorious  time, 
When,  prizing  knowledge  as  her  noblest  wealth 
And  best  protection,  this  imperial  realm, 
While  she  exacts  allegiance,  shall  admit 
An  obligation  on  her  part,  to  teach 
Those  who  are  born  to  serve  her  and  obey; 
Binding  herself  by  statute  to  secure, 
For  all  the  children  whom  her  soil  maintains, 
The  rudiments  of  Letters,  and  inform 
The  mind  with  moral  and  religious  truth, 
Both  understood  and  practised  ; — so  that  none 
However  destitute,  be  left  to  droop, 
By  timely  culture  unsustained,  or  run 
Into  a  wild  disorder,  or  be  forced 
To  drudge  through  weary  life,  without  the  aid 
Of  intellectual  implements  and  tools, — 
A  savage  horde  among  the  civilized, — 
A  servile  band  among  the  lordly  free  ! 

This  right — as  sacred,  almost,  as  the  right 
I"  exist  and  be  supplied  with  sustenance 
And  means  of  life — the  lisping  bahe  proclaims 
To  be  inherent  in  him  by  heaven's  will, 
For  the  protection  of  his  innocence  ; 
And  the  rude  boy  who  knits  his  angry  brow, 
And  lifts  his  wilful  hand  on  mischief  bent,' 
Or  turns  the  sacred  faculty  of  speech 
To  impious  use,  by  process  indirect 
Declares  his  due,  while  he  makes  known  his  need. 

This  sacred  right  is  fruitlessly  announced — 
This  universal  plea  in  vain  addressed — 
To  eyes  and  ears  of  parents,  who  themselves 
Did,  in  the  time  of  their  necessity, 
Urge  it  in  vain ;  and,  therefore,  like  a  prayer 
That  from  the  humblest  floor  ascends  to  heaven, 
It  mounts  to  reach  the  State's  parental  ear; 
Who,  if  indeed  she  own  a  mother's  heart, 
And  be  not  most  unfeelingly  devoid 
Of  gratitude  to  Providence,  will  grant 
Th'  unquestionable  good. 

The  discipline  of  slavery  is  unknown 
Among  us, — hence  the  more  do  we  require 


ADDRESS  TO  LIBERTY.  183 

The  discipline  of  virtue,  order  else 

Cannot  subsist,  nor  confidence,  nor  peace. 

Thus,  duties  rising  out  of  good  possessed, 

And  prudent  caution,  needful  to  avert 

Impending  evil,  do  alike  require 

That  permanent  provision  should  be  made 

For  the  whole  people  to  he  taught  and  trained: — 

So  shall  licentiousness  and  black  resolve 

Be  rooted  out,  and  virtuous  habits  take 

Their  place  j  and  genuine  piety  descend, 

Like  an  inheritance,  from  age  to  age.      Wordsworth. 


Address  to  Liberty. 

O  could  I  worship  aught  beneath  the  skies 
That  earth  hath  seen,  or  fancy  could  devise, 
Thine  altar,  sacred  Liherty,  should  stand. 
Built  by  no  mercenary  vulgar  hand, 
Wilh  fragrant  turf,  and  flowers  as  wild  and  fair, 
As  ever  dressed  a  bank,  or  scented  summer  air. 

Duly,  as  ever  on  the  mountain's  height, 
The  peep  of  morning  shed  a  dawning  light ; 
Again,  when  evening  in  her  sober  vest 
Drew  the  grey  curtain  of  the  fading  west; 
My  soul  should  yield  thee  willing  thanks  and  praise 
For  the  chief  blessings  of  my  fairest  days. 
But  that  were  sacrilege:  praise  is  not  thine, 
But  his  who  gave  thee,  and  preserves  thee  mine  : 
Else  I  would  say. — and,  as  I  spake,  bid  fly 
A  captive  bird  into  the  boundless  sky, — 
This  rising  realm  adores  thee  ;  thou  art  come 
From  Sparta  hither,  and  art  here  at  home: 
We  feel  thy  force  still  active ;  at  this  hour 
Enjoy  immunity  from  priestly  power; 
While  conscience,  happier  than  in  ancient  years, 
Owns  no  superior  but  the  God  she  fears. 

Propitious  Spirit!  yet  expunge  a  wrong, 
Thy  rights  have  suffered,  and  our  land,  too  long  ; 
Teach  mercy  to  ten  thousand  hearts  that  share 
The  fears  and  hopes  of  a  commercial  care : 
Prisons  expect  the  wicked,  and  were  built 
To  bind  the  lawless,  and  to  punish  guilt ; 
But  shipwreck,  earthquake,  battle,  fire,  and  flood, 
Are  mighty  mischiefs,  not  to  be  withstood ; 


184  ALL  THINGS  ARE  OF  GOD. 

And  honest  merit  stands  on  slippery  ground. 

Where  covert  guile,  and  artifice  abound. 

Let  just  restraint,  for  public  piece  designed, 

Chain  up  the  wolves  and  tigers  of  mankind ; 

The  foe  of  virtue  has  no  claim  to  thee ; — 

But  let  insolvent  innocence  go  free.  Coirper. 


"  All  things  are  of  (rod" 

THOU  art,  O  God,  the  life  and  light 

Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  see* 
Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night, 

Are  but  reflections  caught  from  thee : 
Where'er  we  turn,  thy  glories  shine, 
And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine. 

When  day  with  farewell  beam  delays. 

Among  the  opening  clouds  of  even, 
And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 

Through  opening  vistas  into  heaven; — 
Those  hues  that  make  the  sun's  decline 
So  soft,  so  radiant,  Lord,  are  thine. 

When  night,  with  wings  of  starry  gloom, 
O'ershadows  all  the  earth  and  skies, 
Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird,  whose  plume 

Is  sparkling  with  unnumber'd  eyes  j — 
That  sacred  gloom,  those  fires  divine^ 
So  grand,  so  countless,  Lord,  are  thine. 

When  youthful  Spring  around  us  breathes, 
Thy  spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh; 
And  ev'ry  flower  that  summer  wreaths 
Is  born  beneath  thy  kindling  eye: — 
Where'er  we  turn  thy  glories  shine, 
And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine. 

Moore 


The  hour  of  Prayer. 
CHILD,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play, 
While  the  red  light  fades  away  ;— 
Mother,  with  thine  earnest  eye, 
Ever  foll'wing  silently ; 
Father,  by  the  breeze  of  eve, 


HOPE  IN  DEATH.  185 


Galled  thy  harvest  work  to  leave — 
Pray  !     Ere  yet  the  dark  hours  be, 
Lift  the  heart  and  hend  the  knee. 

TravTer,  in  the  stranger's  land, 
Far  from  thine  own  household  band; — 
Mourner  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  a  voice  from  this  world  gone; — 
Captive,  in  whose  narrow  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwell — 
Sailor,  on  tlte  dark'ning  sea  ; — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee! 

Warrior,  that  from  battle  won 
Breatliest  now  at  set  of  sun  ; — 
Woman,  o'er  the  lowly  slain, 
Weeping  on  his  burial-plain  ; — 
Ye  that  triumph,  ye  that  sigh, 
Kindred  by  one  holy  tie  ! 
Heaven's  first  star  alike  ye  see — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee ! 


Hope  triumphant  in  death. 

UNFADING  Hope !  when  life's  last  embers  burn, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return, 
Heav'n  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour! 
Oh  !  then  thy  kingdom  comes  !  Immortal  Power ! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye  ! 
Bright,  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands -convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day: — 
Then,  then  the  triumph  of  the  trance  begin  ! 
And  all  thy  Phoenix  spirit  burns  within  ! 

Oh  !  deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose, 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes — 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  parting  spirit  sigh, 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die ! 
Mysterious  worlds,  untrnvel'd  by  the  sun  ! 
Where  Time's  far-wandVing  tide  has  never  run, 
From  your  unfathom'd  shndes,  and  viewless  spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears. 

'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet  long  and  loud, 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  peal  ing  from  the  cloud  f 
While  Nature  hears  with  terror-mingled  trust, 


18«  HOPE  IN  DEATH. 

The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust  ; 
And,  like  the  trembling  Hebrew  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  called  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss, 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss  ! 

Daughter  of  Faith,  awake,  arise,  ilium* 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb  1 
Melt  and  dispel  ye  specter-doubts,  that  roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  on  the  parting  soul  1 
Fly,  like  the  moon-ey'd  herald  of  dismay, 
Chas'd  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day  ! 
The  strife  is  o'er  —  The  pangs  of  Nature  close, 
And  life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 


Hark  !  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze$ 
The  noon  of  Heaven,  undazzled  by  the  blaze, 
On  Heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky, 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody  ; 
Wild  as  that  hallowed  anthem  sent  to  hail 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale, 
When  Jordan  hush'd  his  waves,  and  midnight  sl.»t 
Watch'd  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion's  hill  ! 

Soul  of  the  just  !  companion  of  the  dead  ! 
Where  is  thy  home,  and  whether  art  thou  fled? 
Back  to  its  heavenly  source  thy  being  goes, 
Swift  as  the  comet  wheels  to  whence  he  rose  ; 
Doom'd  on  his  airy  path  awhile  to  burn, 
And  doom'd,  like  thee,  to  travel,  and  return.  — 
Hark  !  from  the  world's  exploding  centre  driven, 
With  sounds  that  shock  the  firmament  of  Heaven, 
Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far, 
On  bickering  wheels,  and  adamantine  car* 

From  planet  whirl'd  to  planet  more  remote, 
He  visits  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought; 
But,  wheeling  homeward,  when  his  course  is  run, 
Curbs  the  red  yoke,  and  mingles  with  the  sun  !  — 
So  hath  the  traveler  of  earth  unfurl'd 
Her  trembling  wings,  emerging  from  the  world; 
And,  o'er  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod, 
Sprung  to  her  source,  the  bosom  of  her  God  ! 

Campbell 


INCENTIVES  TO  DEVOTION.  187 


Incentives  to  Devotion. 

Lo  !  the  uriletter'd  hind,  who  never  knew 
To  raise  his  mind  excursive,  to  the  heights 
Of  abstract  contemplation,  as  he  sits 
On  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedge-row  side, 
What  time  the  insect  swarms  are  murmuring, 
And  marks,  in  silent  thought,  the  broken  clouds, 
That  fringe,  with  loveliest  hues,  the  evening  sky, 
Feels  in  his  soul  the  hand  of  nature  rouse 
The  thrill  of  gratitude,  to  him  who  formed 
The  goodly  prospect:  he  beholds  the  God 
Thron'd  in  the  west ;  and  his  reposing  ear 
Hears  sounds  angelic  in  the  fitful  breeze 
That  floats  through  neighboring  copse  or  fairy  brake, 
Or  lingers,  playful,  on  the  haunted  stream. 

Go  with  the  cotter  to  his  winter  fire, 
When  o'er  the  moor  the  loud  blast  whistles  shrill, 
And  the  hoarse  ban-dog  bays  the  icy  moon ; 
Mark  with  what  awe  he  lists  the  wild  uproar, 
Silent,  and  big  with  thought ;  and  hear  him  bless 
The  God  that  rides  on  the  tempestuous  clouds. 
For  his  snug  hearth,  and  all  his  little  joys. 

Hear  him  compare  his  happier  lot,  with  his 
Who  bends  his  way  across  the  wintry  wolds, 
A  poor  night-traveler,  while  the  dismal  snow 
Beats  in  his  face,  and  dubious  of  his  paths, 
He  stops,  and  thinks,  in  every  lengthening  blast, 
He  hears  some  village  mastiff's  distant  howl, 
And  sees  far  streaming  some  lone  cottage  light; 
Then,  undeceived,  upturns  his  streaming  eyes, 
And  clasps  his  shivering  hands,  or  overpower'd, 
Sinks  on  the  frozen  ground,  weighed  down  with  sleep 
From  which  the  hapless  wretch  shall  never  wake. 

Thus  the  poor  rustic  warms  his  heart  with  praist 
And  glowing  gratitude:  he  turns  to  bless 
With  honest  warmth,  his  Maker  and  his  God. 
And  shall  it  e'er  be  said,  that  a  poor  hind, 
NursM  in  the  lap  of  ignorance,  and  bred 
In  want  and  labor,  glows  with  noble  zeal 
To  laud  his  Maker's  attributes,  while  he 
Whom  starry  silence  in  her  cradle  rocked, 


188  THE  RAINBOW. 


And  Castalay  enchastened  with  its  dews, 
Closes  his  eye  upon  the  holy  word, 
And,  blind  to  all  but  arrogance  and  pride, 
Dares  to  declare  his  infidelity, 
And  openly  contemn  the  Lord  of  Hosts! 

What  is  the  pomp  of  learning?  the  parade 
Of  letters  and  of  tongues  ?  Even  as  the  mists 
Of  the  gray  morn  before  the  rising  sun, 
That  pass  away  and  perish.     Earthly  things 
Are  but  the  transient  pageants  of  an  hour; 
And  eartbly  pride  is  like  the  passing  flower, 
That  springs  to  fall,  and  blossoms  but  to  die. 

H.  K.   White. 


DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 


The  Rainbow. 

THE  evening  was  glorious,  and  light  through  the  treesj 
Play'd  in  sunshine  the  rain-drops,  the  birds,  and  the  breeze  : 
The  landscape  outstretching  in  loveliness  lay, 
On  the  lap  of  the  year,  in  the  beauty  of  May. 
For  the  bright  queen  of  spring,  as  she  pass'd  down  the  vale 
Left  her  robe  on  the  trees,  and  her  breath  on  the  gale ; 
And  the  smile  of  her  promise  gave  joy  to  the  hours, 
And  fresh  in  her  footsteps  sprang  herbage  and  flowers. 
The  skies,  like  a  banner  in  sunset  unroll'd, 
O'er  the  west  threw  their  splendor  of  azure  and  gold; 
But  one  cloud  at  a  distance  rose  dense,  and  increas'd, 
Till  its  margin  of  black  touch'd  the  zenith  and  east. 

We  gaz'd  on  these  scenes,  while  around  us  they  glow'd 
When  a  vision  of  beauty  appeared  on  the  cloud ; 
'Twas  not  like  the  sun.  a*  at  mid-day  we  view, 
Nor  the  moon,  that  rolls  lightly  through  star-light  and  blue. 
Like  a  spirit  it  came  in  the  van  of  the  storm, 
And  the  eye  and  the  heart  hail'd  its  beautiful  form ; 
For  it  look'd  not  severe,  like  an  angel  of  wrath, 
But  its  garments  of  brightness  illum'd  its  dark  path. 
In  the  hues  of  its  grandeur  sublimely  it  stood, 
O'er  the  river,  the  village,  the  field,  and  the  wood; 
And  river,  field,  village,  and  woodland  grew  bright, 
As  conscious  they  gave  and  afforded  delight. 


LAST  DAYS  OF  AUTUMN.  189 

'Twas  tne  bow  of  Omnipotence,  bent  in  his  hand, 
Wbose  grasp  at  creation  the  universe  spann'd  ; 
'Twas  the  presence  of  God,  in  a  symbol  sublime, 
His  vow  from  the  flood  to  the  exile  of  time;— 
Not  dreadful,  as  when  in  a  whirlwind  he  pleads, 
When  storms  are  his  chariot,  and  lightning  his  steeds, — 
The  black  cloud  of  vengeance  his  banner  unfurl'd, 
And  thunder  his  voice  to  a  guilt-stricken  world, — 
In  the  breath  of  his  presence,  when  thousands  expire, 
And  seas  boil  with  fury,  and  rocks  burn  with  fire, 
And  the  sword  and  the  plague-spot  with  death  strew  the  plain, 
And  vultures  and  wolves  are  the  graves  of  the  slain  : — 

Not  such  was  that  rainbow,  that  beautiful  one  ! 
Whose  arch  was  refraction,  its  key-stone — the  sun  j 
A  pavilion  it  seem'd  with  a  deity  graced, 
And  justice  and  mercy  met  tjiere  and  embraced. 
Awhile,  and  it  sweetly  bent  over  the  gloom, 
Like  love  o'er  a  death-couch,  or  hope  o'er  the  tomb; 
Then  left  the  dark  scene,  whence  it  slowly  retired, 
As  love  has  just  vanished,  or  hope  had  expired. 

I  gazed  not  alone  on  that  source  of  my  song  ; 
To  all  who  beheld  it  these  verses  belong; 
Its  presence  to  all  was  the  path  of  the  Lord  ! 
Each  full  heart  expanded,  grew  warm  and  adored. 
Like  a  visit — the  converge  of  friends — or  a  day, 
That  bow  from  my  sight  pass'd  forever  away ; 
Like  that  visit,  that  converse,  that  day,  to  my  heart, 
That  bow  from  remembrance  can  never  depart. 
'Tis  a  picture  in  mem'ry,  distinctly  defined, 
With  the  strong  and  imperishing  colors  of  mind: — 
A  part  of  my  being  beyond  my  control, 
Beheld  on  that  cloud,  and  transcribed  on  my  soul. 

Campbell. 

I 

The  last  Days  of  Autumn. 

Now  the  growing  year  is  over, 
And  the  shepherd's  tinkling  bell, 
Faintly  from  ils  winter  cover, 
Rings  a  low  farewell: — 
Now  the  birds  of  Autumn  shiver 
Where  the  withered  beach-leaves  quiver, 
O'er  the  dark  and  lazy  river, 
In  the  rocky  dell. 


190  EVENING  SKETCH. 

2.  Now  the  mist  is  on  the  mountains, 
Redd'ning  in  the  rising  *un  ; 

Now  the  flowers  around  the  fountains 

Perish  one  by  one: 
Not  a  spire  of  grass  is  growing; 
But  the  leaves  that  late  were  glowing, 
Now  its  blighted  green  are  strowing 

With  a  mantle  dun. 

3.  Now  the  torrent  brook  is  stealing 
Faintly  down  the  furrowed  glade — 

Not  as  when  in  winter  pealing, 

Such  a  din  it  made, 
That  the  sound  of  cataracts  falling 
Gave  no  echo  so  appalling, 
As  its  hoarse  and  heavy  brawling 

In  the  pine's  black  shade. 

4.  Darkly  blue  the  mist  is  hovering 
Round  the  clifted  rock's  bare  height, 

All  the  bordering  mountains  covering 

With  a  dim  uncertain  light: 
Now,  a  fresher  wind  prevailing, 
Wide  its  heavy  burden  sailing, 
Deepens  as  the  day  is  failing, 

Fast  the  gloom  of  night. 

5.  Slow  the  blood-stained  moon  is  rising 
Through  the  still  and  hazy  air, 

Lik    a  sheeted  spectre  gliding 

In  a  torch's  glare  : 
Few  the  hours  her  light  is  given — 
Mingling  clouds  of  tempest  driven 
O'er  the  mourning  face  of  heaven, 

All  is  blackness  there."  Percivat* 


An  Evening  sketch. 

'Tis  twilight  now. 

The  sovereign  sun  behind  his  western  hills 
In  glory  hath  declined.     The  mighty  clouds, 
Kissed  by  his  warm  effulgence,  hang  around 
In  all  their  congregated  hues  of  pride, 
Like  pillars  of  some  tabernacle  grand, 
Worthy  his  glowing  presence ;  while  the  skyt 
Illumin'd  to  its  center,  glows  intense, 
Changing  his  sapphire  majesty  to  gold. 


NIAGARA  FALLS.  191 


How  deep  is  the  tranquillity  !  the  trees 
Are  slumbering  through  their  multitude  of  boughs, 
Even  to  the  leaflet  on. the  frailest  twig  ! 
A  twilight  gloom  pervades  the  distant  hills  ; 
An  azure  softness  mingling  with  the  sky. 
Then  drags  the  fisjiman  to  the  yellow  shore 
His  laden  nets ;  and,  in  the  sheltering  cove, 
Behind  yon  rocky  point,  his  shallop  moors, 
To  tempt  again  the  perilous  deep  at  dawn. 

The  sea  is  waveless,  as  a  lake  ingulf 'd 
'Mid  sheltering  hills,— without  a  ripple  spread? 
Its  bosom,  silent  and  immense, — the  hues 
Of  flickering  day  have  from  its  surface  died, 
Leaving  it  garb'd  in  sunless  majesty. 
With  bosoming  branches  round,  yon  village  hang? 
It  rows  of  lofty  elm  trees ;  silently, 
Towering  in  spiral  wreaths  to  the  soft  sky, 
The  smoke  from  many  a  cheerful  hearth  ascends, 
Melting  in  ether. 

As  I  gaze,  behold 

The  evening  star  illumines  the  blue  south, 
Twinkling  in  loveliness.     O!  holy  star, 
Thou  bright  dispenser  of  the  twilight  dews, 
Thou  herald  of  Night's  glowing  galaxy, 
And  harbinger  of  social  bliss  ! — how  oft, 
Amid  the  twilights  of  departed  years, 
Resting  beside  the  river's  mirror  clear, 
On  trunk  of  massy  oak,  with  eyes  upturn'd 
To  thee  in  admiration,  have  I  sat, 
Dreaming  sweet  dreams  till  earth-born  turbulerux 


all  forgot;  and  thinking  that  in  thee, 
rom  the  rudeness  of  this  jarring  world 


Was 

Far  from  the  rudeness  of  this  jarrin 

There  might  be  realms  of  quiet  happiness 


Niagara  Falls. 

TREMENDOUS  torrent !  for  an  instant  husi* 
The  terrors  of  thy  voice,  and  cast  aside 
Those  wide-involving  shadows,  that  my  ey«  » 
May  see  the  fearful  beauty  of  thy  face — 
I  am  not  all  unworthy  of  thy  sight ; 
For,  from  my  very  boyhood,  have  I  loved — 
Shunning  the  meaner  track  of  common  minds— 
To  look  on  nature  in  her  loftier  moods. 


192  NIAGARA  FALLS. 


At  the  fierce  rushing  of  the  hurricane — 
At  the  near  bursting  of  the  thunderbolt — 
I  have  been  touched  with  joy  ;  and,  when  the  sea, 
Lashed  by  the  wind,  hath  rocked  my  bark,  and  showed 
Its  yawning  caves  beneath  me.  T  have  loved 
Its  dangers  and  the  wrath  of  elements. 
But  never  yet  the  madness  of  the  sea 
Hath  moved  me,  as  thy  grandeur  moves  me  now. 

Thou  flowest  on  in  quiet,  till  thy  waves 
Grow  broken  'midst  the  rocks ;  thy  current  then 
Shoots  onward,  like  the  irresistible  course 
Of  destiny.     Ah !  terrible  thy  rage  ! 
The  hoarse  and  rapid  whirlpools  there  !  My  brain 
Grows  wild,  my  senses  wander,  as  I  gaze 
Upon  the  hurrying  waters;  and  my  sight 
Vainly  would  follow,  as  toward  the  verge 
Sweeps  the  wide  torrent — waves  innumerable 
Meet  there  and  madden — waves  innumerable 
Urge  on  and  overtake  the  waves  before, 
And  disappear  in  thunder  and  in  foam. 

They  reach — they  leap  the  barrier:  the  abyss 
Swallows,  insatiable,  the  sinking  waves. 
A  thousand  rainbows  arch  them,  and  the  woods 
Are  deafened  with  the  roar.     The  violent  shock 
Shatters  to  vapor  the  descending  sheets  ; 
A  cloudy  whirlwind  fills  the  gulf,  and  heaves 
The  mighty  pyramid  of  circling  mist 
To  heaven.     The  solitary  hunter,  near, 
Pauses  with  terror  in  the  forest  shades. 

God  of  all  truth  !  in  other  lands  I've  seen 
Lying  philosophers,  blaspheming  men, 
Questioners  of  thy  mysteries,  that  draw 
Their  fellows  deep  into  impiety; 
And  therefore  doth  my  spirit  seek  thy  face 
In  earth's  majestic  solitudes.     Even  here 
My  heart  doth  open  all  itself  to  thee. 
In  this  immensity  of  loneliness 
I  feel  thy  hand  upon  me.     To  my  ear 
The  eternal  thunder  of  the  cataract  brings 
Thy  voice,  and  I  am  humbled  as  I  hear. 

Dread  torrent !  that  with  wonder  and  with  fea» 
Dost  overwhelm  the  soul  of  him  that  looks 
Upon  thee.  and  dost  bear  it  from  itself— 
Whence  hast  thou  thy  beginning?     Who  wpplkts 
Age  after  age,  thy  unexhausted  springs  7 


HOHENLINDEN.  193 


What  power  hath  ordered,  that,  when  all  thy  weight 
Descends  into  the  deep,  the  swollen  waves 
Rise  not,  and  roll  to  overwhelm  the  earth? 

The  Lord  hath  opened  his  omnipotent  hand, 
Covered  thy  face  with  clouds,  and  given  his  voice 
To  thy  down-rushing  waters  ;  he  hath  girt 
Thy  terrible  forehead  with  his  radiant  bow. 
I  see  thy  never-resting  waters  run, 
And  I  bethink  me  how  the  tide  of  time 
Sweeps  to  eternity.     So  pass  off  man — 
Pass—like  a  noon-day  dream — the  blossoming  days, 
And  he  awakes  to  sorrow.        *        *        *        * 

Hear,  dread  Niagara !  my  latest  voice. 
Yet  a  few  years,  and  the  cold  earth  shall  close 
Over  the  bones  of  him  who  sings  .thee  now     . 
Thus  feelingly.     Would  that  this,  my  humble 
Might  be,  like  thee,  immortal.     I,  meanwhile, 
Cheerfully  passing  to  the  appointed  rest, 
Might  rise  my  radiant  forehead  in  the  clouds, 
To  listen  to  the  echoes  of  my  fame. 


Hohenlinden. 

ON  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  th'  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Lser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight. 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  nignt, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  rxrea. 
Then  rush'd  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

And  redder  yet  those  fires  shall  glow, 
On  Linden's  hills  of  blood-stained  snow. 
And  darker  yet  shall  be  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

12 


194  SUMMER  MORNING. 


JTis  morn,  hut  scarce  yon  lurid  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  iiery  Hun, 
£5hout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

7.  The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  wave  ! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Ah  !  few  shall  part  where  many  meet 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet, 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulcher.  Campbell. 


Summer  Morning. 

SWEET  the  beams  of  rosy  morning, 

Silent  chasing  gloom  away  j 
Lovely  tints  the  sky  adorning, 

Harbingers  of  opening  day  ! 
See  the  king  of  day  appearing, 

Slow  his  progress  and  serene  ; 
Soon  I  feel  the  influence,  cheering, 

Of  this  grand  and  lovely  scene ! 

Jl.ovely  songsters  join  their  voices, 

Harmony  the  grove  pervades  ; 
All  in  nature  now  rejoices, 

Light  and  joy  succeed  the  shades. 
Stars  withdraw,  and  man  arises, 

To  his  labor  cheerful  goes  ; 
Day's  returning  blessings  prizes, 

And  in  praise  his  pleasure  shows  ! 

May  each  morn  that  in  succession, 

Adds  new  mercies  ever  flowing, 
Leave  a  strong  and  deep  impression 

Of  my  debt,  for  ever  growing  ! 
Debt  of  love,  ah  !  how  increasing  ! 

Days  and  years  fresh  blessings  bring, 
But  my  praise  shall  flow  unceasing, 

And  my  Maker's  love  I'll  sing ! 


The  envious  Man. 

MUCH  was  removed  that  tempted  once  to  sin, 
Avarice  no  gold,  no  wine  the  drunkard  saw  : 


CHEERFULNESS.  195 


But  envy  nad  enough,  as  heretorore, 
To  fill  his  heart  with  gall  and  bitterness. 
What  made  the  man  of  envy  what  he  was, 
Was  worth  in  others,  vileness  in  himself, 
A  lust  of  praise,  with  undeserving  deeds, 
And  conscious  poverty  of  soul :  and  still 
It  was  his  earnest  work  and  daily  toil 
With  lying  tongue,  to  make  the  noble  seem 
Mean  as  himself. 

On  fame's  high  hill  he  saw 
The  laurel  spread  its  everlasting  green, 
And  wished  to  climb  ;  but  felt  his  knees  too  weak ; 
And  stood  below  unhappy,  laying  hands 
Upon  the  strong  ascending  gloriously 
The  steps  of  honor,  bent  to  draw  them  back; 
Involving  oft  the  brightness  of  their  path 
In  mists  his  breath  had  raised. 

Whene'er  he  heard, 
As  oft  he  did,  of  joy  and  happiness, 
And  great  prosperity,  and  rising  worth, 
'Twas  like  a  wave  of  wormwood  o'er  his  sou. 
Rolling  its  bitterness.     His  joy  was  wo — 
The  wo  of  others  :  when  from  wealth  to  want, 
From  praises  to  reproach,  from  peace  to  strife, 
From  mirth  to  tears,  he  saw  a  brother  fall, 
Or  virtue  make  a  slip — his  dreams  were  sweet. 

But  chief  with  slander,  daughter  of  his  own, 
He  took  unhallowed  pleasure ;  when  she  talked, 
And  with  her  filthy  lips  defiled  the  best, 
His  ear  drew  near  ;  with  wide  attention  gaped 
His  mouth  ;  his  eye,  well  pleased,  as  eager  gazed 
As  glutton  when  the  dish  he  most  desired 
Was  placed  before  him  ;  and  a  horrid  mirth, 
At  intervals,  with  laughter  shook  his  sides. 

Pollok. 


Cheerfulness. 

FAIR  as  the  dawning  light !  auspicious  guest  I 
Source  of  all  comfort  to  the  human  breast ! 
Deprived  of  thee,  in  sad  despair  we  moan 
And  tedious  roll  the  heavy  moments  on. 
Though  beauteous  objects  all  around  us  rise, 
To  eharm  the  fancy  and  delight  the  eyes ; 


196  CHEERFULNESS. 


Tho'  art's  fair  works  and  nature's  gifts  conspire 
To  please  each  sense,  and  satiate  each  desire, — 
'Tis  joyless  all,  till  thy  enliv'ning  ray 
Scatters  the  melancholy  gloom  away, 
Then  opens  to  the  soul  a  heavenly  scene, 
Gladness  and  peace,  all  sprightly,  all  serene. 

Where  dost  thou  deign,  say,  in  what  blest  retreat, 
To  choose  thy  mansion,  and  to  fix  thy  seat  ? 
Thy  sacred  presence  how  shall  we  explore  ? 
Can  avarice  gain  thee  with  her  golden  store  ? 
Can  vain  ambition  with  her  boasted  charms, 
Tempt  thee  with  her  wide  extended  arms? 
No,  with  Content  alone  canst  thou  abide 
Thy  sister,  ever  smiling  by  thy  side. 

When  boon  companions,  void  of  ev'ry  care, 
Crown  the  full  bowl,  and  the  rich  banquet  share, 
And  give  a  loose  to  pleasure — art  thou  there  ? 
Or  when  the  assembled  great  and  fair  advance 
To  celebrate  the  mask,  the  play,  the  dance, — 
While  beauty  spreads  its  sweetest  charms  around, 
And  airs  ecstatic  swell  their  tuneful  sound, 
Art  thou  within  the  pompous  circle  found  ? 
Does  not  thy  influence  more  sedately  shine  ? 
Can  such  tumultuous  joys  as  these  be  thine? 

Surely  more  mild,  more  constant  in  their  course, 
Thy  pleasures  issue  from  a  nobler  source, — 
From  sweet  discretion  ruling  in  the  breast, 
From  passions  temper'd,  ana  from  lusts  represt  j 
From  thoughts  unconscious  of  a  guilty  smart, 
And  the  calm  transports  of  an  honest  heart. 

Thy  aid,  O  ever  faithful,  ever  kind  ! 
Through  life,  through  death,  attends  the  virtuous  mind , 
Of  angry  fate  wards  from  us  ev'ry  blow. 
Cures  ev'ry  ill,  and  softens  ev'ry  wo. 
Whatever  good  our  mortal  state  desires, 
What  wisdom  finds,  or  innocence  inspires  ; 
From  nature's  bounteous  hand  whatever  flows 
Whate'er  our  Maker's  providence  bestows  — 
By  thee  mankind  enjoys, — by  thee  repays 
A  grateful  tribute  of  perpetual  praise.  Fitzgerald.' 


BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO.  197 


Night  before  the  Battle  of  Waterloo. 

THERE  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
Arid  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell — 

But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  ris'ncr 

knell- 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ? — No ;  'twas  but  the  wind. 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfmed ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  youth  and  pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet — 
.  But,  hark  ! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm  !  Arm !  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar  ! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sat  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear  ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deern'd  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well. 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell: 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since,  upon  nights  so  sweet,  such  awful  morn  could 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste ;  the  steed 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 


198  TIME'S  CHANGES. 

Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed 

And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 

And  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  peal  afar ; 

And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 

Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 

While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 

Or  whispering  with  white  lips — "  The  foe  !  They  come  ' 

they  come  !" 

Arid  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering"  rose  ' 
The  war  note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard — and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes. — 
How  iii  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill!     But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instills 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years  ; 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears ! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear  drops  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn,  the  marshaling  in  arms, — the  day, 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which,  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  cover'd  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
llider  and  horse — friend,  foe — in  one  red  burial  blent ! 

Byron, 


PATHETIC  PIECES. 

written  by  one  who  had  long-  been  a  resident  in  India, 

on  his  return  to  his  native  country. 
1.  I  CAME,  but  they  had  passed  away — 
The  fair  in  form,  the  pure  in  mind; — 


TIME'S  CHANGES.  199 

And,  like  a  stricken  deer,  I  stray 

Where  all  are  strange,  and  none  are  kind — 
Kind  to  the  worm,  the  wearied  soul, 

That  pants,  that  struggles- for  repose : 

0  that  my  steps  had  reached  the  goal 
Where  earthly  sighs  and  sorrows  close  ! 

Years  have  passed  o'er  me,  like  a  dream 
That  leaves  no  trace  on  memoiy's  page : 

1  look  around  me,  and  I  seem  r 

Some  relic  of  a  former  age. 
Alone,  as  in  a  stranger  clirne, 

Where  stranger  voices  mock  my  ear, 
I  mark  the  lagging  course  of  time, 

Without  a  wish — a  hope — a  fear! 

Yet  I  had  hopes — and  they  nave  iled  ; 

And  fears — and  they  were  all  too  true  ; 
My  wishes  too — but  they  are  dcau  ; 

And  what  have  I  with  life  to  do? 
Tis  but  to  wear  a  weary  load 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  cast  away ; 
To  sigh  for  one  small,  still  abode, 

Where  I  may  sleep  as  sweet  as  they  j — 

As  they  the  loveliest  of  their  race, 

Whose  grassy  tombs  my  sorrows  steep, 
Whose  worth  my  soul  delights  to  trace, 

Whose  very  loss  'tis  sweet  to  weep, — 
To  weep  beneath  the  silent  moon, 

With  none  to  chide,  to  hear,  to  see  : 
Life  can  bestow  no  greater  boon 

On  one  whom  death  disdains  to  free. 

I  leave  the  World  that  knows  me  not, 

To  hold  communion  with  the  dead  j 
And  fancy  consecrates  the  spot 

Where  fancy's  softest  dreams  are  shed. 
I  see  each  shade— all  silvery  white — 

I  hear  each  spirit's  melting  sigh  ; 
I  turn  to  clasp  those  forms  of  light, — 

And  the  pale  morning  chills  my  eye. 

But  soon  the  last  dim  morn  shall  rise, — 
The  lamp  of  life  hums  feebly  now, — 

When  stranger  hands  shall  close  my  eyes, 
And  smooth  my  cold  and  dewy  brow. 

Unknown  I  lived;  so  let  me  die: 
Nor  stone,  nor  monumental  cross, 


200  WINTER  NIGHT. 


Tell  where  his  nameless  ashes  lie, 

Who  sighed  for  gold,  and  found  it  dross* 


The  Winter  Night. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign, 
Dark  muffled,  viewed  the  dreary  plain, 
While  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul, — 
When  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain 
Slow,  solemn,  stole  : — 

"Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust! 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter,  biting  frost ! 
Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows  ! 
Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shows 
More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting 
Vengeful  malice,  unrepenting, 
Than  heaven-illumin'd  man  on  brother  man  bestows 

See  stern  oppression's  iron  grip, 
Or  mad  ambition's  gory  hand, 
Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip, 
Wo,  want,  and  murder  o'er  a  land ! 

Even  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale, 
Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale, 

How  pampered  luxury, — flattery  by  her  side, 
The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 
With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear,-* 

Looks  o'er  proud  property,  extended  wide, 
And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind, 
Whose  toil  upholds  the  glittering  show, — 
A  creature  of  another  kind, 
Some  coarser  substance,  unrefined, 

Placed  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus  vile,  belo^r. 

Where,  where  is  love's  fond,  tender  throe, 
With  lordly  honor's  lofty  brow, 

The  powers  you  proudly  own  ? 
Is  there,  beneath  love's  noble  name, 
Can  harbor,  dark,  the  selfish  aim, 

To  bless  himself  alone? 

O  ye !  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create, 


COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT.  201 

Think  for  a  moment  on  his  wretched  fate 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown ! 

Ill  satisfied  keen  nature's  clamorous  call, 

Stretched  on  his-  straw  he  lays  himself  to  sleep, 
While  through  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky  wall, 

Chill,  o'er  his  slumbers,  piles  the  drifty  heap  :•=- 

Think  on  the  dungeon's  grim  confine, 

Where  guilt  and  poor  misfortune  pine  J 

Guilt,  erring  man  relenting  view  !— 

But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 

The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 

By  cruel  fortune's  undeserved  blow  ? 
Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress, 
A  brother  to  relieve  how  exquisite  the  bliss  \n 

I  heard  no  more ;  for  Chanticleer 

Shook  oft*  the  powdery  snow, 
And  hailed  the  morning  with  a  cheer^ 

A  cottage  rousing  crow* 
But  deep  this  truth  impressed  my  mind — 

Through  all  his  works  abroad, 
The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 
The  most  resembles  God.  Burns* 


The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  or  a  Scottish  Peasant's  >V 
mily  Devotion. 

THE  frugal  supper  done,  with  cheerful  face, 

They  round  the  fireside  form  a  circle  widej 
The  sire  turns  o'er  with  patriarchal  grace, 

The  sacred  Bible  once  his  father's  pride : 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  hoary  locks  displaying,  thin  and  bare, 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  seeks  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And  "Let  us  worship  God,"  he  says  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  j 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name; 
Or  noble  Elgin  beats  the  heav'nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compar'd  with  these.  Italian  trills  are  tame, 

12* 


20U  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise, 
Nor  unison  have  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abra'm  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny  ; 
Or,  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 
Or,  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or,  rapt  Isaiah's  wild  seraphic  fire ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heav'n  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head: 
tlow  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand  ; 
And  heard  great  Babylon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven's 
command. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays: 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  j 
There,  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear ; 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart! 
The  pow'r  incens'd  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  j 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 
That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad; 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
"  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God  ;" 

And  certain,  in  fair  virtue's  heav'nly  road 


BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE.  203 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 
What  is  a  lord  ling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human-kind, 
Studied  in  arts  most  vile,  in  wickedness  refin'd  I— Burns. 


Tlie  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore, 

NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  o'er  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot, 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sod  with  our  bayonets  turning, 
Dy  the  trembling  moon-beams'  misty  light, 
And  our  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Nor  in  sheet,  nor  in  shroud  we  bound  him  ; 
But  he  lay — like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
His  martial  cloak  wrapt  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smooth'd  down  his  lowly  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 
And  we,  far  away  o'er  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  speak  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him 
But  little  he'll  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 
In  the  grave  where  his  comrades  nave  laid  him. 

Not  the  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 
When  the  bell  toli'd  the  hour  for,  retiring  ; 
And  we  heard,  too,  the  distant  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  then  suddenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory  ; 
We  carv'd  not  a  line,  we  rais'd  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone*— with  his  glory.  Wolfe. 


204  EARTH  TO  EARTH. 


"Earth  to  Earth,  and  Dust  to  Dust:1 

"  EARTH  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !" 
Here  the  evil  and  the  just, 
Here  the  youthful  and  the  old, 
Here  the  fearful  and  the  bold, 
Ilere  the  matron  and  the  maid 
In  one  silent  bed  are  laid  ; 
Here  the  vassal  and  the  king 
Side  by  side  lie  withering; 
Here  the  sword  and  sceptre  rust  — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust." 


on  age  shall  roll  along 
O'er  this  pale  and  mighty  throng; 
Tho«p  that  wept  them,  those  that  weep 
ju.  snail  with  these  sleepers  sleep. 
Brothers,  sisters  of  the  worm, 
Summers  sun  or  winter's  storm, 
Song  of  peace  or  battle's  roar, 
Ne'er  shall  break  their  slumbers  more: 
Death  shall  keep  his  sullen  trust  — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !" 

But  a  day  is  coming  fast, 
Earth,  thy  mightiest  and  thy  last  ! 
It  shall  come  in  fear  and  wonder, 
Heralded  with  trump  and  thunder  ; 
It  shall  come  in  strife  and  toil  ; 
It  shall  come  in  blood  and  spoil; 
It  shall  come  in  empire's  groans, 
Burning  temples,  trampled  thrones: 
Then,  ambition,  rue  thy  lust  !  — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !" 

Then  shall  come  the  judgment  sign, 
In  the  East  the  KING  shall  shine, 
Flashing  from  heaven's  golden  gate, 
Thousand  thousands  round  his  state, 
Spirits  with  the  crown  and  plume  ;  — 
Tremble  then,  thou  sullen  tomb  ! 
•  Heaven  shall  open  on  our  sight, 
Earth  be  turned  to  living  light- 
Kingdom  of  the  ransomed  just  — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !H 


ROSE  OF  THE  WLIDERNESS.  206 

Then  thy  mount,  Jerusalem, 
Shall  be  gorgeous  as  a  gem; 
Then  shall  in  the  desert  rise 
Fruits  of  more  than  paradise, 
Earth  by  angel  feet  be  trod, 
One  great  garden  of  her  God ! 
Till  are  dried  the  martyr's  tears, 
Through  a  thousand  glorious  years  ! 
Now  in  hope  of  HIM  we  trust, — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust."  Croly. 


PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


The  Rose  of  the  Wilderness. 

AT  the  silence  of  twilight's  contemplative  hour,    .     . 

I  have  mus'd  in  a  sorrowful  mood, 
On  the  wind  shaken  weeds  that  embosom  the  bowetj 

Where  the  home  of  my  forefathers  stood. 
All  ruined  and  wild  is  their  roofless  abode, 

And  lonely  the  dark  raven's  sheltering  tree  ; 
And  travel'd  by  few  is  the  grass-covered  road, 
Where  the  hunter  of  deer  and  the  warrior  trodej 

To  his  hills  that  encircle  the  sea. 

Yet  wand'ring,  I  found  on  my  ruinous  walk, 

By  the  dial  stone  aged  and  green, 
One  rose  of  the  wilderness  left  on  its  stalk, 

To  mark  where  a  garden  had  been. 
Like  a  brotherless  hermit,  the  last  of  its  race, 

All  wild  in  the  silence  of  Nature,  it  drew, 
From  each  wandering  sun-beam  a  lonely  embrace, 
For  the  night-weed  and  thorn  overshadowed  the  place, 

Where  the  flower  of  my  forefathers  grew. 

Sweet  bud  of  the  wilderness  !  emblem  of  all 

That  remains  in  this  desolate  heart ! 
The  fabric  of  bliss  to  its  center  may  fall ; 

But  patience  shall  never  depart ! 
Though  the  wilds  of  enchantment,  all  vernal  and  bright. 

In  the  days  of  delusion  by  fancy  combin'd, 
With  the  vanishing  phantoms  of  love  and  delight, 
Abandon  my  soul  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

-And  leave  but  a  desert  behind. 


206  MOUNT  PARNASSUS. 

Be  hush'd  my  dark  spirit!  for  wisdom  condemn^ 

When  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore ; 
Be  strong  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore! 
Through  the  perils  of  chance,  and  the  scowl  of  disdain, 

May  thy  front  be  unnlter'd,  thy  courage  elate ; 
Yea!  even  the  name  I  have  worshipp'd  in  vain, 
Shall  awake  not  the  sigh  of  remembrance  again  ; 

To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate.  Campbell. 


Apostrophe  to  Mount  Parnassus. 

1.  O  THOU  Parnassus  !  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  phrensy  of  a  dreamer's  eye, 

Not  in  the  fabled  landscape  of  a  lay, 
But  soaring,  snow-clad,  through  thy  native  sky, 
In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain  majesty ! 

What  marvel  that  I  thus  essay  to  sing  ? 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims,  passing  by, 

Would  gladly  woo  thine  Echoes  with  his  string, 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse  shall  wave  her 
wing. 

Oft  have  I  dreamed  of  thee ! — whose  glorious  name 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore  j — 
And  now  I  view  thee,  'tis,  alas !  with  shame 
That  I,  in  feeblest  accents,  must  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore, 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee  ; 

Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar, 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
In  silent  joy,  to  think  at  last  I  look  on  thee  ! 

Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  been, 

Whose  fate  to  distant  homes  confined  their  lot, 
Shall  T,  unmoved,  behold  the  hallowed  scene 

Which  others  rave  of,  though  they  know  it  not? 

Though  here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  his  grot, 
And  thou,  the  Muses'  seat,  art  now  their  grave, 

Some  gentle  spirit  still  pervades  the  spot, 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave, 
Or  glides.,  with  glassy  foot,  o'er  yon  melodious  wave. 

Byron. 


THE  OCEAN.  207 


The  Ocean. 

THERE  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel, 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean— roll1 ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vainj 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ; — upon  thy  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depth  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, — 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war, — 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake 
They  melt  into  the  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  th'  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts ; — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play : — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thy  a2ure  brow : — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  th'  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convuls'd — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clinic 
Dark  heaving, — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime— 


SACKING  OF  PRAGUE. 


The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  j  thou  goest  forth,  dread  fathomless,  alone. 

Byron. 


The  Sacking  of  Prague. 

OH  !  sacred  Truth !  thy  triumph  c  as'd  awhile. 
And  Hope,  thy  sister,  ceas'd  with  thee  to  smile, 
When  leagu'd  Oppression  pour'd  to  Northern  wars 
Her  whisker'd  panders  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Wav'd  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Peal'd  her  loud  drum,  and  twang'd  her  trumpet  horn  j 
Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man ! 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  survey'd, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  a  waste  of  ruin  laid, — 
Oh  !  Heav'n,  he  cried,  my  bleeding  country  save  ! 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave? 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweeps  these  lovely 
Rise,  fellow-men !  our  country  yet  remains  ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high, 
And  swear  for  her  to  live ! — with  her  to  die ! — 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart  heights  array'd 
His  trusty  warriors,  few  but  undismay'd ; 
Firm  plac'd  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form,    * 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm; 
Low,  murm'ring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Revenge,  or  death — the  watchword  and  reply  ;— 
Then  peal'd  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  toll'd  their  last  alarm ! — 

In  vain,  alas !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few ! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volley'd  thunder  flew ; 
Oh  bloodiest  picture  in  the  Book  of  Time, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime. — 
Found  not  a  gen'rous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  wo  ! 
Dropp'd  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shatter'd  spear, 
Clos'd  her  bright  eye,  and  curb'd  her  high  career  j 
Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell  j 
And  freedom  shriek'd — as  Kosciusko  fell ! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceas'd  the  carnage  there. 
Tumultuous  murder  shook  the  midnight  air  j 


GREEK  AND  TURKMAN.  200 

Oh  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  rum  glow, 
His  blood-dy'd  waters  raurm'ring  far  below; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  away, 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay  ! 
Hark  !  as  the  smouldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call ! 
Earth  shook,  red  meteors  fiash'd  along  the  sky. 
And  conscious  Nature  shudder'd  at  the  cry  ! 

Oh  !  righteous  Heaven !  ere  Freedom  found  a  grave 
Why  slept  the  sword  Omnipotent  to  save? 
Where  was  thine  arm,  O  Vengeance  !  where  thy  rod, 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God, — 
That  crush'd  proud  Ammon,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoked  in  wrath,  and  thimder'd  from  afar? 
Where  was  the  storm  that  slumher'd  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stain'd  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling  coast? 
Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow, 
And  heav'd  an  ocean  on  their  march  below  ! 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead  I 
Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled  ! 
Friends  of  the  world  !  restore  your  swords  to  man, 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van ! 
Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  atone, 
And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own! 
Oh !  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return. 
The  Patriot  Tell— the  Bruce  of  Bannockburn ! 

Yes !  thy  proud  lords,  unpitied  land  !  shall  see 
That  man  hath  yet  a  soul — and  dare  be  free ! 
A  little  while,  along  thy  sadd'ning  plains, 
The  starless  night  of  desolation  reigns; 
Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  Nature  giv'n, 
And,  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  Heav'n ! 
Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurled,— 
Her  name,  her  nature,  wither'd  from  the  world ! 

Campbell. 


The  Greek  and  the  Turkman. 

THE  Turkman  lay  beside  the  river ; 
The  wind  play'd  loose  through  bow  and  quitrei} 
The  charger  on  the  bank  fed  free ; 
The  shield  hung  glittering  from  the  tree  j 
The  trumpet,  shawm,  and  attabal, 
Were  hid  from  dew  by  cloak  and  pall ; 


210  GRfcEK  AND  TURKMAN. 

For  long  and  weary  was  the  way 

The  hordes  had  march'd  that  burning  day. 

Above  them,  on  the  sky  of  June, 
Broad  as  a  buckler,  glow'd  the  moon, 
Flooding  with  glory  vale  and  hill; 
In  silver  sprang  the  mountain  rill ; 
The  weeping  shrub  in  silver  bent ; 
A  pile  of  silver  stood  the  lent : 

All  soundless,  sweet  tranquillity, 

All  beauty,  hill,  and  tent,  and  tree. 

Th^r*  came  a  sound — 'twas  like  the  gush 
When  night  winds  shake  the  rose's  bush  ; 
There  came  a  sound — 'twas  like  the  How 
Of  rivers  swell'd  with  melting  snow; 
There  came  a  sound — 'twas  like  the  tread 
Of  wolves  along  the  valley's  bed  ; 

There  came  a  sound — 'twas  like  the  voar 

Of  ocean  on  its  winter  shore. 

"Death  to  the  Turk!"  uprose  the  yell; 
On  rolled  the  charge — a  thunder  peal: 
The  Tartan  arrows  fell  like  rain, 
They  clank'd  on  helm,  on  mail,  on  chain  ; 
In  blood,  in  hate,  in  death,  were  twin'd 
Savage  and  Greek,  mad,  bleeding,  blind ; 
And  still  on  flank,  on  front,  and  rear, 
Rag'd,  Constantine,  thy  thirstiest  spear ! 

Brassy  and  pale,  a  type  of  doom, 
Labor'd  the  moon,  through  deep'ning  gloom ; 
Down  plung'd  her  orb — 'twas  pitchy  night : — 
Now  Turkman,  turn  thy  reins  for  flight ! 
On  rush'd  their  thousands  through  the  dark ; 
But  in  their  camp  a  ruddy  spark 
Like  an  uncertain  meteor,  reel'd  : 
Thy  hand,  brave  king,  that  firebrand  wheel'd  ! 

Wild  burst  the  burning  element 
O'er  man  and  courser,  flag  and  tent ; 
And  through  the  blaze  the  Greeks  outsprang, 
Like  tigers,  bloody,  foot  and  fang, 
With  dagger's  stab,  and  falchion's  sweep, 
Delving  the  stunn'd  and  staggering  heap, 
Till  lay  the  slave  by  chief  and  Khan, 
And  all  was  gore  that  once  was  man. 
There's  wailing  on  the  Euxine 
Her  chivalry  shall  rido  no  more. 


HYMN  TO  THE  STARS.  211 

There's  waning  on  chy  hills,  Altai, 
For  chiefs — the  Grecian  vultures'  prey  ! 
But  Bosphorus,  thy  silver  wave 
Hears  shouts  for  the  returning  brave — 

The  bravest  of  her  kingly  line, 

For  there  comes  glorious  Constantioe;  Croly 


Morning  Meditations. 

IN  sleep's  serene  oblivion  laid, 
I've  safely  pass'd  the  silent  night ; 
Again  I  see  the  breaking  shade, 
Again  behold  the  morning  light. 

New  born  I  bless  the  waking  hour; 
Once  more,  with  awe,  rejoice  to  be 
My  conscious    oul  resumes  her  power, 
And  soars,  my  guardian  God,  to  thee. 

O  guide  me  through  the  various  maze 

My  doubtful  feet  are  doom'd  to  tread ; 

And  spread  thy  shield's  protecting  blaze, 

Where  dangers  press  around  my  head. 

A  deeper  shacje  shall  soon  impend — 
A  deeper  sleep  my  eyes  oppress: 
Yet  then  thy  strength  shall  still  defend* 
Thy  goodness  still  delight  to  bless. 

That  deeper  shade  shall  break  away ; 
That  deeper  sleep  shall  leave  mine  eyes; 
Thy  light  shall  give  eternal  day  ; 
Thy  love,  the  rapture  of  the  skies. 

Hawkeswortn. 


Hymn  to  the  Stars. 

AY,  there  ye  shine,  and  there  have  shone, 

In  one  eternal  'hour  of  prime,' 
Each  rolling  burningly,  alone, 

Through  boundless  space  and  countless  time. 
Ay,  there  ye  shine — the  golden  dews 

That  lave  the  realms  by  seraphs  trod, 
There,  through  yon  echoing  vault,  diffuse 

The  song  of  choral  worlds  to  God. 

Ye  visible  spirits!  bright  as  erst 
Young  JEdeu'a  birthnight  saw  ye 


212  HYMN  TO  THE  STARS. 

On  all  her  flowers  and  fountains  first, 
Yet  sparkling  from  the  hand  divine  ; 

Yes,  bright  as  then  ye  smil'd,  to  catch 
The  music  of  a  sphere  so  fair, 

Ye  hold  your  high  immortal  watch, 
And  gird  your  God's  pavilion  there. 

Gold  frets  to  dust, — yet  there  ye  are  ; 

Time  rots  the  diamond, — there  ye  roll 
In  primal  light,  as  if  each  star 

Enshrined  an  everlasting  soul ! 
And  does  it  not — since  your  bright  throngs 

One  all-enlight'ning  Spirit  own, 
Prais'd  there  by  pure,  sidereal  tongues, 

Eternal,  glorious,  blest,  alone? 

Could  man  but  see  what  ye  have  seen, 

Unfold  awhile  the  shrouded  past, 
From  all  that  is,  to  what  has  been, 

The  glance  how  rich  !  the  range  how  vast ! 
The  birth  of  time,  the  rise,  the  fall 

Of  empires,  myriads,  ages  flown, 
Thrones,  cities,  tongues,  arts,  worships, — all 

The  things  whose  echoes  are  not  gone. 

Ye  saw  rapt  Zoroaster  send 

His  «oul  into  your  mystic  reign  ; 
Ye  sa^  th'  adoring  Sabian  benjd — 

The  living  hills  his  mighty  fane! — 
Beneath  his  blue  and  beaming  sky, 

He  worshipped  at  your  lofiy  shrine, 
And  deern'd  he  saw,  with  gifted  eye, 

The  Godhead  in  his  works  divine. 

And  there  ye  shine,  as  if  to  mock 

The  children  of  a  mortal  sire. 
The  storm,  the  bolt,  the  earthquake's  shock, 

The  red  volcano's  cataract  fire, 
Drought,  famine,  plague,  and  blood,  and  flame^ 

All  nature's  ills — and  life's  worse  woes — 
Are  nought  to  you  ; — ye  smile  the  same, 

And  scorn  alike  their  dawn  and  close. 

Ay.  there  ye  roll — emblems  sublime 

Oi  him  whose  spirit  o'er  us  moves, 
Beyond  the  clouds  of  grief  and  crime, 

Still  shining  on  the  world  he  loves: — 
Nor  is  one  scene  to  mortals  given, 

That  more  divides  the  soul  and  sod, 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  MUMMY,  213 

Than  yon  proud  heraldry  of  heaven — 
Yon  burning  blazonry  of  God. 


Address  to  the  Mummy,  in  BelzonVs  Exhibition,  London, 

AND  thou  hast  walk'd  about  (how  strange  a  story  !) 
In  Thebes'  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous. 

Speak !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  Dummy, 
Thou  hast  a  tongue-^-come,  let  us  hear  its  tune; 
Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground,  Mummy ! 

Re  visiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moo** 
Not  like  thin  ghosts,  and  disembodied  creatures, 
But  with  thy  bbnes  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and  features. 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 
Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name? 

Is  Pompey's  pillar  really  a  misnomer? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason  and  forbidden 

By  oath  to  tell  the  mysteries  of  thy  trade  ; 
Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  play'd  ? 
Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Priest— if  so,  my  struggles^ 
Are  vain ; — Egyptian  priests  ne'er  owned  their  juggles. 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  nowpinion'd  flat, 
Has  hob-a-nobb'd  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass ; 

Or  dropp'd  a  half-penny  in  Homer's  hat, 
Or  dolfd  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass, 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  Temple's  dedication. 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended, 

We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange  mutations'; 
The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended ; 

New  worlds  have  risen— we  have  lost  old  nations ; 
And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled, 
While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 
Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head 

When  the  great  Persian  conquerer,  Cambysee, 


214  ON  TIME. 


March'd  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 

O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 
And  shook  the  Pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder 
When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confess'd, 

The  nature  of  ihy  private  life  unfold: — 
A  heart  has  throbb'd  beneath  that  leathern  breast, 

And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled : — 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that  face? 
What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  ? 

Statue  of  flesh — immortal  of  the  dead! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence ! 
Posthumous  man,  who  quitt'st  thy  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence, 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever? 
O  let  us  keep  the  soul  enbalmed  and  pure 

In  living  virtue ;  that  Avhen  both  must  sever. 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 
Th'  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom. 


On  Time. 

MOV'D  by  a  strange  mysterious  power, 
That  hastes  along  the  rapid  hour, 

I  touch  the  deep  ton  d  string; 
E'en  now  I  see  his  wither'd  face, 
Beneath  yon  tower's  mouldering  base, 

Where  mossy  vestments  cling. 

Dark  roll'd  his  cheerless  eye  around, 
Severe  his  grisly  visage  frown'd — 

No  locks  his  head  array 'd, — 
He  grasped  a  hero's  antique  bust, 
The  marble  crumbled  into  dust, 

And  sunk  amidst  the  shade. 

Malignant  triumph  filled  his  eyes, 
"  See  hapless  mortals,  see,"  he  cries, 

(C  How  vain  your  idle  schemes ! 
Beneath  my  grasp,  the  fairest  form 
Dissolves  and  mingles  with  the  worm , 
Thus  vanish  mortal  dreams. 


EXPRESSIONS  OF  NATURE.  215 

The  works  of  God !  and  man  I  spoil  j 
The  proudest  proofs  of  human  toil, 

I  treat  as  childish  toys  : 
I  crush  the  noble  and  the  brave, 
Peauty  I  mar,  and  in  the  grave 

I  bury  human  joys." 

Hold  !  ruthless  phantom— hold  !  I  cried, 
If  thou  canst  mock  the  dreams  of  pride, 

And  meaner  hopes  devour, 
Virtue,  beyond  thy  reach,  shall  bloom, 
When  other  charms  sink  to  the  tomb, — 

She  scorns  thy  envious  power. 

On  frosty  wings  the  demon  fled, 
Howling  as  o'er  the  wall  lie  sped, — 

"  Another  year  is  gone  !" 
The  ruin'd  spire — the  crumbling  tow'r, 
Nodding,  obey'd  his  awful  pow'r, 

As  time  flew  swiftly  on. 

Since  beauty  then,  to  time  must  bow, 
And  age  deform  the  fairest  brow, 

Let  brighter  charms  be  yours : 
The  virtuous  mind  embalm'd  in  truth, 
Shall  bloom  in  everlasting  youth, 

While  Time  himself  endures.'  Osbernt. 


The  Silent  Expression  of  Nature. 

WHEN  thoughtful  to  the  vault  of  heaven 

I  lift  my  wondering  eyes, 
And  see  the  clear  and  quiet  even, 

To  night  resign  the  skies, — 
The  moon,  in  silence,  rear  her  crest, 

The  stars  in  silence  shine, — 
A  secret  rapture  fill  my  breast, 

That  speaks  its  birth  divine. 

Unheard,  the  dews  around  me  fall, 

And  heavenly  influence  shed  ; 
And,  silent,  on  this  earthly  ball, 

Celestial  footsteps  tread. 
Aerial  music  wakes  the  spheres, 

Touch'd  by  harmonious  powers : 
With  sounds,  unheard  by  mortal  ears, 

They  charm  the  lingering  hours. 


216  MAN  OF  BENEVOLENCE. 

Night  reigns,  in  silence,  o'er  the  pole, 

And  spreads  her  gems  unheard  : 
Her  lessons  penetrate  the  soul. 

Yet  borrow  not  a  word. 
Noiseless  the  sun  emits  his  fire, 

And  pours  his  golden  streams ; 
And  silently  the  shades  retire 

Before  his  rising  beams. 

The  hand  that  moves,  and  regulates, 

And  guides  the  vast  machine, — 
That  governs  wills,  and  times,  and  fates,- 

Retires,  and  works  unseen. 
Angelic  visitants  forsake 

Their  amaranthine  bowers ; 
On  silent  wing  their  stations  take, 

And  watch  th'  allotted  hours. 

Sick  of  the  vanity  of  man, — 

His  noise,  and  pomp,  and  show— 
I'll  move  upon  great  Nature's  plan, 

And,  silent,  work  below. 
With  inward  harmony  of  soul, 

I'll  wait  the  upper  sphere  ; 
Shining,  I'll  mount  above  the  pole, 

And  break  my  silence  there. 


The  Man  of  Benevolence. 

Let  me  record 

His  praise — the  man  of  great  benevolence, 
Who  charity  with  glowing  heart  embraced, 
And  to  her  gentle  bidding,  made  his  feet 
Swift  ministers. — Of  all  mankind,  his  soul 
Was  most  in  harmony  with  heaven :  as  one 
Sole  family  of  brothers,  sisters,  friends  ; 
One  in  their  origin,  one  in  their  rights 
To  all  the  common  gifts  of  providence, 
And  in  their  hopes,  their  joys,  and  sorrows  one, 
He  viewed  the  universal  human  race. 

He  needed  not  a  law  of  state  to  force 
Grudging  submission  to  the  law  of  God : 
The  law  of  love  was  in  his  heart  alive. 
What  he  possessed,  he  counted  not  his  own, 
But,  like  a  faithful  steward  in  a  house 
Of  public  alms,  what  freely  he  received, 


MAN  OF  BENEVOLENCi',  217 

He  freely  gave ;  distributing  to  all 
The  helpless,  the  last  mite  beyond  his  own 
Temperate  support,  and  reckoning  still  the  gift 
But  justice,  due  to  want;  and  so  it  was  ; 
Altho'  the  world,  with  compliment  not  ill 
Applied,  adorned  it  with  a  fairer  name. 

Nor  did  he  wait  till  to  his  door  the  voice 
Of  supplication  came,  but  went  abroad, 
With  foot  as  silent  as  the  starry  dews, 
In  search  of  misery  that  pined  unseen, 
And  would  not  ask.     And  who  can  tell  what  sights 
He  saw  !  what  groans  he  heard  in  that  cold  world 
Below !  where  Sin,  in  league  with  gloomy  Death, 
March'd  daily  thro'  the  length  and  breadth  of  all 
The  land,  wasting  at  will,  and  making  earth, 
Fair  earth  !  a  lazar-house,  a  dungeon  dark;    { 
Where  Disappointment  fed  on  Ruined  Hope  ; 
Where  guilt,  worn  out,  leaned  on  the  triple  edge 
Of  want,  remorse,  despair;  where  Cruelty 
Reached  forth  a  cup  of  wormwood  to  the  lips 
Of  sorrow,  that  to  deeper  sorrow  wailed  ; 
Where  Mockery,  arid  Disease,  and  Poverty, 
Met  miserable  Age,  erewhile  sore  bent 
With  his  own  burthen  ;  where  the  arrowy  winds 
Of  winter  pierced  the  naked  orphan  babe, 
And  chilled  the  mother's  heart  who  had  no  home, 
And  where,  alas  !  in  mid-time  of  his  day, 
The  honest  man,  robb'd  by  some  villain's  hand, 
Or  with  long  sickness  pale,  and  paler  yet 
With  want  and  hunger,  oft  drank  bitter  draughts 
Of  his  own  tears,  and  had  no  bread  to  eat. 

Oh  !  who  can  tell  what  sights  he  saw,  what  shapes 
Of  wretchedness  !  or  who  describe  what  smiles 
Of  gratitude  illumed  the  face  of  wo, 
While  from  his  hand  he  gave  the  bounty  forth  ! 
As  when  the  sun,  from  cancer  wheeling  back, 
Returned  to  Capricorn,  and  showed  the  north, 
That  long  had  lain  in  cold  and  cheerless  night, 
His  beamy  countenance; — all  nature  then 
Rejoiced  together  glad  ;  the  flower  looked  up 
And  smiled  ;  the  forest  from  his  locks  shook  off 
The  hoary  frosts,  and  clapp'd  his  hands ;  the  birds 
Awoke,  and,  singing,  rose  to  meet  the  day  ; 
And  from  his  hollow  den,  where  many  months 
He  slumbered  sad  in  darkness,  blithe  and  light 
Of  heart  the  savage  sprung,  and  saw  again 

18 


218  THE  PASSIONS. 


His  mountains  shine ;  and  with  new  songs  of  love, 

Allured  the  virgin's  ear;  so  did  the  house, 

The  prison-house  of  guilt,  and  and  all  th'  abodes 

Of  unprovided  helplessness,  revive, 

As  on  them  looked  the  sunny  messenger 

Of  charity, — by  angels  tended  still, 

That  marked  his  deeds,  and  wrote  them  in  the  book 

Of  God's  remembrance : — careless  he  to  be 

Observed  of  men ;  or  have  each  mite  bestowed, 

Recorded  punctual  with  the  name  and  place 

In  every  bill  of  news  :  pleased  to  do  good, 

He  gave  and  sought  no  more.  Pollok. 


The  Passions : — An  Ode. 

WHEN  music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sang, 
The  passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Throng'd  around  her  magic  cell, 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possess'd  beyond  the  Muse's  painting; 
By  turns,  thev  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturb'd,  delighted,  rais'd,  refined; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Fill'dwith  fury,  rapt,  inspir'd, 
From  the' supporting  myrtles  round, 
They  snatch'd  her  instruments  of  sound  ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart, 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each — for  madness  rui'd  the  hour — 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 
First,  Fear,  his  hand  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewilder'd  laid ; 
And  back  recoil'd,  he  knew  not  why, 
E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rush'd  ; — his  eyes  on  fire, 
In  lightnings  own'd  his  secret  stings; — 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair, 
In  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguil'd — 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air — 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 


THE  PASSIONS.  210 


But  thou,  O  Hope  !  with  eyes  so  fair, 
What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 
Still  it  whisper'd  promis'd  pleasure, 
And  hade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still  through  all  her  song: 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close  ; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smil'd,  and  wav'd  her  golden-  hair. 

And  longer  had  she  sung — but,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose. 
He  threw  his  blood-slain'd  sword  in  thunder  down; 

And,  with  a  withering  look, 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  wo : 

And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat, 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat : 
And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 

Dejected  Pity  at  his  side, 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 

Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unalter'd  mien, 
While  each  strain'd  ball  of  sight  seem'd -bursting  from  his 
ead. 

Thy  numbers.  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fixed — 
Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state — 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mix'd  ; 
And  now  it  courted  Love ;  now,  raviug.  call'd  on  Hate 

With  eyes  uprais'd,  as  one  inspir'd, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retir'd  ; 

And,  from  her  wild  sequester'd  seat, 

In  notes,  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Pour'd  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 

And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 

Bubbling  runnels  join'd  the  sound : 
Through  glades  and  glooms  ths  mingled  measures  stole, 
Or  o'er  some  haunted  streams  with  fond  delay, 

(Round  a  holy  calm  diffusing, 

Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing,) 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But,  O !  how  alter'd  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 


220  ELEGY  IN  A 


Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Her  buskins  gemm'd  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung! — 
The  hunter's  call,  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known. 

The  oak  crown'd  Sisters,  and  their  chaste  eyed  dueen, 

Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys  were  seen, 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoic'd  to  hear, 

And  Sport  leap'd  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial : — 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 
First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  address'd — 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  lov'd  the  best. 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain, 
They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids, 

Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing  ; 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kiss'd  the  strings, 

Love  fram'd  with  Mirth,  a  gay  fantastic  round  ; 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  -her  zone  unbound, 

And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. — Collins 


Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard. 

THE  curfew  tolls — the  knell  of  parting  day — 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea; 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds  ; 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  ; — 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 


COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.  221 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow,  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield ; 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke : 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
Await,  alike,  th'  inevitable  hour ; — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
Tf  memory  o'er  their  t6mb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle,  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  1 

Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot,  is  laid 
Some  heart,  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  j 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre : 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 
Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 
The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear  j 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


222  ELEGY  IN  A 


Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood ; 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Millon  here  may  rest; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, — 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind; — 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  Truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  Shame  • 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride. 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray : 
Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life, 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial,  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spell'd  by  the  unletter'd  muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 
That  leach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned — 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day — 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires: 
Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonored  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 
If  chance  by  lonely  Contemplation  led 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy 'fate. — 


COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.  223 


Haply,  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 
Brushing,  with  hasty  steps,  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreaths  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling,  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove; 
Now  drooping,  woful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

K  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  th'  accustomed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree: 
Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he  : — 

"  The  next,  with  dirges,  due,  in  sad  array, 
Slow  through  the  cliurchway  path  we  saw  him  borne: 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay, 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

The  Epitaph. 

HERE  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown : 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere: 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: — 
He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had — a  tear; 

He  gained  from  heaven — 'twas  all  he  wished — a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode — 
(There  they,  alike,  in  trembling  hope  repose) — 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God.  Gray* 


On  the  Barrows,  or  Monumental  Mounds,  in  the  Prairies 
of  the  Western  Rivers. 

THE  sun's  last  rays  wore  fading  from  the  west, 
The  deep'ning  shade  stole  slowly  o'er  the  plain, 
The  evening  breeze  had  lulled  itself  to  rest, 
And  all  was  silence, — save  the  mournful  strain 


224  THE  BARROWS. 


With  which  the  widowed  turtle  wooed,  in  vain, 
Her  absent  lover  to  her  lonely  nest. 

Now,  one  by  one,  emerging  to  the  sight, 
The  brighter  stars  assume  their  seats  on  high ; 

The  moon's  pale  crescent  glowed  serenely  bright, 
As  the  last  twilight  fled  along  the  sky, 
And  all  her  train,  in  cloudless  majesty, 

Were  glittering  on  the  dark  blue  vault  of  night. 

I  lingered,  by  some  soft  enchantment  bound, 
And  gazed,  enraptured,  on  the  lovely  scene  j 

From  the  dark  summit  of  an  Indian  mound, 
I  saw  the  plain,  outspread  in  living  green; 
Its  fringe  of  cliffs  was  in  the  distance  seen, 

And  the  dark  line  of  forest  sweeping  round. 

I  saw  the  lesser  mounds  which  round  me  rose  j 

Each  was  a  giant  heap  of  mouldering  clay  ; 
There  slept  the  warriors,  women,  friends,  and  foes, 

There,  side  by  side,  the  rival  chieftains  lay ; 

And  mighty  tribes,  swept  from  the  face  of  day, 
Forgot  their  wars,  and  found  a  long  repose. 

Ye  mouldering  relics  of  departed  years, 

Your  names  have  perish'd  ;  not  a  trace  remains. 
Save  where  the  grass-grown  mound  its  summit  re<** 

From  the  green  bosom  of  your  native  plains. 

Say,  do  your  spirits  wear  oblivion's  chains  ? 
Did  death  forever  quench  your  hopes  and  fears  ?— 

'     Or  did  those  fairy  hopes  of  future  bliss, 
Which  simple  nature  to  your  bosoms  gave, 

Find  other  worlds  with  fairer  skies  than  this, 
Beyond  the  gloomy  portals  of  the  grave, 
In  whose  bright  climes  the  virtuous  and  the  brav€ 

Rest  from  their  toils,  and  all  their  cares  dismiss  ?— 

Where  the  great  hunter  still  pursues  the  chase, 
And,  o'er  the  sunny  mountains  tracks  the  deer, 

Or  where  he  finds  each  long-extinguish'd  race, 
And  sees  once  more  the  mighty  mammoth  rear 
The  giant  form  which  lies  imbedded  here, 

Of  other  years  the  sole  remaining  trace. 

Or,  it  may  be,  that  still  ye  linger  near 

The  sleeping  ashes,  once  your  dearest  pride  j 


THE  RUINS.  225 


And,  could  your  forms  to  mortal  eye  appear, 
Or  the  dark  veil  of  death  be  thrown  aside, 
Then  might  I  see  your  restless  shadows  glide, 

With  watchful  care,  around  these  relics  dear. 

If  so,  forgive  the  rude,  unhallowed  feet 

Which  trod  so  thoughtless  o'er  your  mighty  dead. 
I  would  not  thus  profane  their  lone  retreat, 

Nor  trample  where  the  sleeping  warrior's  head 

Lay  pillowed  on  his  everlasting  bed, 
Age  after  age,  still  sunk  in  slumbers  sweet. 

Farewell !  and  may  you  still  in  peace  repose ; 
Still  o'er  you  may  the  flowers  untrodden,  bloom, 
And  softly  wave  to  every  breeze  that  blows, 
Casting  their  fragrance  on  each  lonely  tomb, 
In  which  your  tribes  sleep  in  earth's  common  womb, 
And  mingle  with  the  clay  from  which  they  rose. 

Flint. 


The  Ruins. 

I'VE  seen,  in  twilight's  pensive  hour, 
The  moss-clad  dome,  the  mouldering  tower, 

In  awful  ruin  stand  ; 
That  dome,  where  grateful  voices  sung, 
That  tower,  whose  chiming  music  rung 

Majestically  grand ! 

I've  seen,  'mid  sculptur'd  pride,  the  tomb 
Where  heroes  slept,  in  silent  gloorrij 

Unconscious  of  their  fame  ; 
Those  who,  with  laurel'd  honors  crown'd, 
Among  their  foes  spread  terror  round, 
And  gain'd — an  empty  name ! 

I've  seen,  in  death's  dark  palace  laid, 
The  ruins  of  a  beauteous  maid, 

Cadaverous  and  pale ! 
That  maiden  who,  while  life  remain'd, 
O'er  rival  charms  in  triumph  reign'd, 

The  mistress  of  the  vale. 

I've  seen,  where  dungeon  damps  abide, 
A  youth,  admir'd  in  manhood's  pride, 

13* 


226  EVENING  MEDITATION. 

In  morbid  fancy  rave ; 
He  who,  in  reason's  happier  day, 
Was  virtuous,  witty,  nobly  gay, 

Learn'd,  generous,  and  brave. 

Nor  dome,  nor  tower  in  twilight  shade. 
Nor  hero  fallen,  nor  beauteous  maid, 

To  ruin  all  consign'd, — 
Can  with  such  pathos  touch  my  breast. 
As  (on  the  maniac's  form  impress'd) 

The  ruins  of  the  MIND  !  Osborne. 


A  Summer  Evening'  Meditation. 

'Tis  past !     The  sultry  tyrant  of  the  south 
Has  spent  his  short-lived  rage  ;  more  grateful  hours 
Move  silent  on :  the  skies  no  more  repel 
The  dazzled  sight,  but  with  mild  maiden  beams 
Of  tempered  luster,  court  the  cherish'd  eye 
To  wander  o'er  their  sphere,  where,  hung  aloft, 
Dian's  bright  crescent,  like  a  silver  bow 
New  strung  in  heaven,  lifts  high  its  beamy  horns, 
Impatient  for  the  night,  and  seems  to  push 
Her  brother  down  the  sky. 

Fair  Venus  shines 

Even  in  the  eye  of  day ;  with  sweetest  beam 
Propitious  shines,  and  shakes  a  trembling  flood 
Of  softened  radiance  from  her  dewy  locks. 
The  shadows  spread  apace ;  while  meek-eyed  Eve, 
Her  cheek  yet  warm  with  blushes,  slow  retires 
Through  the  Hesperian  gardens  of  the  west, 
And  shuts  the  gates  of  day. 

'Tis  now  the  hour 

"Wnen  Contemplation,  from  her  sunless  haunts, 
The  cool  damp  grotto,  or  the  lonely  depth 
Of  unpierc'd  woods,  where  wrapt  in  solid  shade 
She  mus'd  away  the  gaudy  hours  of  noon, 
And  fed  on  thoughts  unripen'd  by  the  sun, 
Moves  forward  ;  and  with  radiant  finger  points 
To  yon  blue  concave  swelled  by  breath  divine, 
Where,  one  by  one,  the  living  eyes  of  heaven 
Awake,  quick  kindling  o'er  the  face  of  ether 

boundless  blaze—ten  thousand  trembling  fires, 


EVENING  MEDITATION.  227 


And  dancing  lusters,  where  th'  unsteady  eye, 
Restless  and  dazzled,  wanders  unconfined 
O'er  all  this  field  of  glories — spacious  field, 
And  worthy  of  the  Master — he,  whose  hand 
With  hieroglyphics  older  than  the  Nile, 
Inscrib'd  the  mystic  tablet,  hung  on  high 
To  public  gaze,  and  said — Adore,  O  Man  \ 
The  finger  of  thy  God! 

How  deep  the  silence,  yet  how  loud  the  praise  • 
But  are  they  silent  all  ?  or  is  there  not 
A  tongue  in  every  star,  that  talks  with  man 
And  woos  him  to  be  wise — or  woos  in  vain — 
This  dead  of  midnight  is  the  noon  of  thought, 
And  wisdom  mounts  her  zenith  with  the  stars. 
At  this  still  hour,  the  self-collected  soul 
Turns  inward,  and  beholds  a  stranger  there 
Of  high  descent,  and  more  than  mortal  rank — 
An  embryo  God — a  spark  of  fire  divine, 
Which  must  burn  on  for  ages,  when  the  sunj 
(Fair  transitory  creature  of  a  day  !) 
Has  closed  his  golden  eye,  and,  wrapt  in  shades, 
Forgets  his  wonted  journey  through  the  east. 

Seized  in  thought, 

On  fancy's  wild  and  roving  wing  I  sail, 
From  the  green  borders  of  the  peopled  earth, 
And  the  pale  moon,  her  duteous  fair  attendant  j 
From  solitary  Mars  ;  from  the  vast  orb 
Of  Jupiter, — whose  huge  gigantic  bulk 
Dances  in  ether  like  the  lightest  leaf,— 
To  the  dim  verge  the  suburbs  of  the  system, 
WThere  cheerless  Saturn  'midst  his  watery  mdons, 
Girt  with  a  lucid  zone,  in  gloomy  pomp, 
Sits  like  an  exiled  monarch.     Fearless  thence 
I  launch  into  the  trackless  deeps  of  space, 
Where,  burning  round,  ten  thousand  suns  appear 
Of  elder  beam,  which  ask  no  leave  to  shine 
Of  our  terrestrial  star,  nor  borrow  light 
From  the  proud  regent  of  our  scanty  day— 
Sons  of  the  morning,  first-born  of  creation, 
And  only  less  than  He  who  marks  their  track, 
And  guides  their  fiery  wheels. 

But  O  thou  mighty  mind  !  whose  powerful  word 
Said,  "  Thus  let  all  things  be,"  and  thus  they  were — 
Where  shall  I  seek  thy  presence  ?  how,  unblamed, 
Invoke  thy  dread  perfection  ? 


228  EVENING  MEDITATION. 

Have  the  broad  eyelids  of  the  morn  beheld  thee? 

Or  does  the  beamy  shoulder  of  Orion 

Support  thy  throne  ?  Oh  !  look  with  pity  down 

On  erring  guilty  man  ;  not  in  thy  names 

Of  terror  clad  ;  nor  with  those  thunders  armed 

That  conscious  Sinai  felt,  when  fear  appalled 

The  scattered  tribes — thou  hast  a  gentler  voice, 

That  whispers  comfort  to  the  swelling  heart, 

Abashed,  yet  longing  to  behold  her  Maker. 

But  now  my  soul,  unused  to  stretch  her  powers 
In  flight  so  daring,  drops  her  weary  wing, 
And  seeks  again  the  known  accustomed  spot,    . 
Drest  up  with  sun,  and  shade,  and  lawns,  and 
A  mansion  fair  and  spacious  for  its  guest, 
And  all  replete  with  wonders.     Let  me  here, 
Content  and  grateful,  wait  th7  appointed  time, 
And  ripen  for  the  skies  :  the  hour  will  come 
When  all  these  splendors  bursting  on  my  sight, 
Shall  stand  unveiled,  and  to  my  ravished  sense 
Unlock  the  glories  of  the  world  unkaown. 

BarbaubL 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  229 


PART  III. 


AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

The  Discovery  of  America : — Settlement  of  Virginia  by 
the  English. 

AMERICA  was  discovered  in  the  year  1492,  hy  Christo- 
pher Columbus,  a  native  of  Genoa — an  expedition  having 
been  fitted  out  for  that  purpose,  at  his  most  earnest  solicita- 
tions, by  the  Spanish  government.  The  project  of  seeking 
for  a  Continent  west  of  the  Atlantic,  had  long  been  entertain- 
ed by  Columbus  ;  but  notwithstanding  the  perseverance  and 
fortitude  with  which  he  brought  it  to  a  successful  termination, 
he  was  defrauded  of  the  just  right  of  associating  his  name 
with  this  vast  portion  of  the  earth.  In  this  he  was  supplant- 
ed by  Amerigo  Vespucci,  a  native  of  Florence,  who  in  1499 
went  on  a  voyage  to  America,  and  who  published  an  account 
of  his  adventures  so  ingeniously  framed,  as  to  make  it  ap- 
pear that  he  had  the  glory  of  first  discovering  the  continent. 

But  the  English  were  the  second  people  that  discovered 
the  new  world,  and  the  first  that  discovered  the  continent  of 
America.  On  the  24th  of  June,  1497,  Giovanni  Caboto,  (or 
Cabot,)  and  his  son  Sebastian,  who  were  commissioned  oy 
Henry  VIII.  to  sail  in  quest  of  new  countries,  discovered  a 
large  island,  to  which  they  gave  the  name  of  Prima  Vesta,  or 
first  seen ;  now  called  Newfoundland.  From  this  they  steered 
to  the  north,  in  search  of  a  passage  to  India ;  but  finding  no 
appearance  of  a  passage,  they  tacked  about,  and  ran  as  far  as 
Florida,  the  island  of  Cuba,  as  he  relates,  being  on  his  left. 
.  On  the  accession  of  Elizabeth  to  the  crown  of  England, 
a  period  commenced,  highly  auspicious  to  mercantile  exten- 
sion. The  coast  of  Labrador  was  explored  by  Martin  Fro- 
bisher,  under  her  auspices,  in  the  years  1576,  '7,  '8;  and  Sir 
Francis  Drake,  about  this  time,  accomplished  his  celebrated 
voyage  around  the  globe. 

In  1584,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,*a  favorite  at  that  time  of  the 
queen,  despatched  two  small  vessels,  under  the  command  oT 
Philip  Amidas  and  Arthur  Barlow,  which  reached  the  coast 
of  North  Carolina  on  the  4th  of  July,  making  their  passage 


230  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

in  sixty-seven  days  by  way  of  the  Canary  islands  and  the 
West  Indies.  On  their  return,  Amidas  and  Barlow  gave  a 
splendid  description  of  the  country — of  its  beauty,  fertility, 
mildness  of  climate,  and  serenity  of  atmosphere  ;  and  Eliza- 
beth gave  it  the  name  of  Virginia. 

In  15S5,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  fitted  out  a  squadron  of  se- 
ven small  vessels,  with  one  hundred  and  eighty  adventurers, 
which  sailed  from  Plimouth,  under  the  command  of  Sir  Rich- 
ard Greenville.  This  colony  was  left  on  the  island  of  Roa- 
noke,  under  the  care  of  Captain  Lane ;  but  through  bad  man  • 
agement,  turning  all  their  attention  to  the  search  for  gold  and 
silver,  they  were  soon  assailed  by  a  two-fold  calamity — the 
hostility  of  the  natives  and  the  prospect  of  famine.  Sir 
Francis  Drake,  on  his  return  from  the  West  Indies,  at  the 
unanimons  request  of  the  colonists,  carried  them  back  to 
England,  and  thus  ended  the  ill-conducted  experiment,  after 
a  trial  of  nine  months.  Early  in  the  following  year,  three 
more  vessels  arrived  at  the  same  spot,  with  one  hundred  and 
fifty  settlers ;  but  misfortune  pursued  this  infant  settlement. 
The  threatened  Spanish  armada  engrossed  the  attention  ol 
the  parent  country,  the  colony  received  no  supplies,  and  the 
inhabitants  perished  miserably  by  famine,  or  by  the  hands  oi 
their  surrounding  enemies. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  being  engaged  in  other  ambitious 
undertakings,  so  vast  and  various  as  were  beyond  his  power 
to  accomplish,  and  becoming  cold  to  the  unprofitable  schemt 
of  effecting  settlements  in  America,  assigned  his  interest  in 
that  country  to  Sir  Thomas  Smith  and  a  company  of  mer- 
chants in  London,  in  1596.  These  were  satisfied  for  the  pre- 
sent to  pursue  a  petty  traffic  with  the  natives,  and  made  r>a 
attempt  to  take  possession  of  the  soil. 

But  in  the  succeeding  reign  of  James,  who  having  con- 
cluded an  amicable  treaty  with  Spain,  and  terminated  a  te- 
dious war,  the  period  was  more  auspicious  for  settlements  in 
America.  The  attention  of  the  monarch  was  called  to  this 
subject  by  the  efforts  of  distinguished  geographers  and  men 
of  science.  James  divided  into  districts  of  nearly  equal  extent, 
that  portion  of  North  America  which  stretches  from  the  34th 
to  the  45th  degree  of  north  latitude,  excepting  the  territory 
of  any  other  Christian  prince  or  people  already  occupied ; 
one  called  the  First,  or  South  Colony,  the  'other  the  Second, 
or  North  Colony  of  Virginia. 

In  1606,  he  authorized  certain  gentlemen,  mostly  resi- 
dents of  London,  to  settle  in  a  limited  district  of  the  former : 
an  equal  extent  of  the  latter  he  allotted  to  several  gentlemen 
of  Bristol,  Plymouth,  and  other  parts  of  the  west  of  England. 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  231 

These  grants  laid  the  first  foundation  of  states  which  in  a 
few  centuries  were  destined  to  become  rivals  to  the  mothef 
country  in  wealth,  in  science,  and  in  power. 

The  supreme  government  of  the  colonies  was  vested  in 
a  council  resident  in  England,  to  be  nominated  by  the  king; 
the  subordinate  jurisdiction  in  a  council  which  was  to  reside 
in  America,  and  also  to  be  named  by  the  crown,  and  to  act 
conformably  to  its  instructions.  Whatever  was  required  for 
their  sustenance,  or  for  the  support  of  commerce,  he  permit- 
ted to  be  shipped  from  England  free  of  duty,  during  the  space 
of  seven  years ;  and  as  an  incitement  to  industry,  granted 
them  the  liberty  of  trading  with  other  nations,  appropriating 
the  duties  to  be  laid  on  foreign  traffic  for  twenty-one  years, 
as  a  fund  for  their  own  exclusive  benefit. 

A  vessel  of  one  hundred  tons,  and  two  barques,  under 
the  command  of  Captain  Newport,  sailed  with  one  hundred 
and  five  men,  destined  to  remain  in  the  country :  amongf 
these  was  a  Mr.  Percy,  brother  of  the  earl  of  Northumber- 
land, and  several  officers  who  had  served  with  reputation  in 
the  preceding  reign.  The  first  land  that  was  discovered  was 
a  promontory,  the  southern  boundary  of  the  Chesapeake, 
April,  1607 :  this  was  named  cape  Henry,  in  honor  of  the 
prince  of  Wales.  The  spacious  inlet  was  entered,  and  the 
expedition  coasted  the  southern  shore,  and  up  a  river  sixty 
miles,  called  by  the  natives  Powhatan,  to  which  the  English 
gave  the  name  of  James  River,  in  honor  of  their  sovereign. 
Here  a  site  was  fixed  for  the  infant  settlement,  which  wag 
named  James  Town. 

Imprudent  in  their  conduct  toward  the  natives,  this 
feeble  society  was  early  involved  in  war.  Scarcity  of  provi- 
sions introduced  diseases ;  and  in  a  few  months  half  their 
original  number  were  swept  away,  and  the  remainder  left 
sickly  and  dejected. 

The  government  soon  devolved  on  Captain  John  Smith, 
who  was  originally  one  of  the  council  appointed  by  the  king, 
but  who  had  unjustly  been  deprived  of  his  authority  by  the 
colonists.  This  gentleman,  who  was  emphatically  the  fa- 
ther of  Virginia,  was  a  native  of  Lincolnshire:  he  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  feats  of  courage  and  chivalry,  particu- 
larly while  engaged  in  the  Hungarian  army  against  the  Turks, 
His  undaunted  temper,  deeply  tinctured  with  the  romantic 
spirit  of  the  times,  was  happily  adapted  to  the  present  trying 
situation  of  the  colony. 

Soon  after  he  had  been  called  as  their  leader,  while 
hunting  in  the  woods,  he  was  attacked  by  two  hundred  In- 
dians, who  poured  in  upon  him  a  continued  flight  of  arrows* 


232  .      AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

After  performing  wonderful  feats,  he  sunk  in  the  unequal 
contest,  and  was  made  a  prisoner.  Charmed  by  his  arts  and 
his  valor,  they  released  him  from  captivity.  Afterwards  he 
was  beset  by  three  hundred  more  of  these  ferocious  people, 
pursued  into  a  marsh,  and,  after  he  had  thrown  away  his 
arms,  which  he  could  no  longer  use  by  reason  of  the  cold,  he 
was  taken  and  carried  in  triumph  to  Powhatan,  the  princi- 
pal chieftain  of  Virginia. 

-  Here  the  doom  of  death  was  pronounced  upon  him, 
and  he  was  about  to  receive  the  fatal  blow,  when  the  favorite 
daughter  of  Powhatan,  interposed  in  his  behalf.  This  amia- 
ble child  (not  then  thirteen  years  of  age)  not  only  prevented 
the  execution  of  Smith  by  her  entreaties  and  tears,  but  caused 
him  to  be  set  at  liberty,  and  sent  him,  from  time  to  time,  sea- 
sonable presents  of  provisions. 

The  colony  was  now  reduced  to  thirty-eight  persons. 
Soon  after,  however,  succors  arrived  from  England,  and  an 
addition  of  one  hundred  new  planters  was  added  to  their  num- 
ber. But  the  culture  of  the  land,  and  other  useful  employ- 
ments were  neglected,  in  the  futile  idea  that  gold  had  been 
discovered  issuing  from  a  small  stream  which  emptied  into 
James  River.  The  effects  of  the  delusion  were  soon  severe- 
ly felt  in  the  prospect  of  approaching  famine.  In  the  hope 
of  obtaining  relief,  Smith,  in  a  small  open  boat,  and  with  a 
feeble  crew,  went  in  search  of  aid  from  the  Indians. 

In  two  different  excursions,  that  occupied  upward  of 
four  months,  he  visited  all  the  countries  on  the  eastern  and 
western  shores  of  the  Chesapeake  bay,  entering  the  principal 
creeks,  and  tracing  the  rivers  as  far  as  their  falls,  and  ob- 
tained a  supply  of  food  for  the  suffering  colony.  In  these 
tours,  he  sailed  upwards  of  three  thousand  miles,  amidst  al- 
most incredible  hardships,  and  brought  back  with  him  an 
account  of  that  large  tract  of  country,  now  comprehended 
in  the  two  states  of  Virginia  and  Maryland,  so  full  and  cor- 
rect, that  his  map  is  the  original  from  which  all  subsequent 
delineations  have  been  formed  until  lately. 

About  this  period,  the  old  charter  being  found  inconve- 
nient and  oppressive,  a  new  charter  was  granted  by  James, 
by  which  the  boundaries  of  the  colony  were  enlarged;  the 
council  in  Virginia  was  abolished,  and  the  government  vest- 
ed entirely  in  one  residing  in  London,  the  members  of  which 
were  to  be  chosen  by  the  proprietors,  and  these  to  nominate 
a  governor,  who  was  to  reside  in  Virginia,  and  carry  their 
orders  into  execution. 

Lord  Delaware  was  at  first  appointed  to  this  office  ; 
but  as  this  nobleman  could  net  immediately  leave  England, 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  233 

the  power  was  vested  in  Sir  Thomas  Gates  and  Sir  George 
Somers,  who  were  despatched  from  England  with  five  hun- 
dred planters.  A  violent  hurricane  separated  the  fleet  on 
their  way ;  and  the  ships  without  the  officers,  only  arrived  at 
James  Town.  Presently  every  thing  was  reduced  to  a  state 
of  anarchy;  Captain  Smith,  at  once  the  shield  and  the  sword 
of  the  colony,  being  disabled  by  an  accidental  explosion  of 
gun-powder,  the  wretchedness  which  followed  is  beyond  de- 
scription ;  and  the. arrival  of  Gates  and  Somers,  who  had 
been  cast  away  on  one  of  the  Bermuda  islands,  although  it 
saved  the  wretched  survivors  at  James  Town  from  immediate 
death,  was  unable  to  preserve  them  till  autumn. 

.  Nothing  remained  but  to  seek  immediate  assistance  ; 
and  with  only  sixteen  days'  provision,  the  colony  set  sail,  in 
hopes  of  reaching  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  and  getting 
relief.  But  before  they  had  arrived  at  the  mouth  of  the  river 
they  met  Lord  Delaware,  who  brought  a  large  supply  of  sus- 
tenance, new  settlers,  and  everything  requisite  either  for 
cultivation  or  defense.  Under  the  skilful  administration  of 
this  nobleman,  the  colony  began,  once  more,  to  assume  a 
promising  appearance.  He  was  succeeded  by  Sir  Thomas 
Dale,  who  concluded  a  treaty  of  friendship  with  the  Powha- 
tans  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  warlike  tribes  of  Virginia. 

Pocahontas,  the  amiable  female  who  had  preserved  the 
life  of  Captain  Smith,  frequently  visited  the  English  settle- 
ments ;  and  during  this  intercourse,  she  was  betrayed  on 
board  a  vessel  and  there  imprisoned.  Her  father,  who  loved 
her  with  the  most  ardent  affection,  was  obliged  to  discontinue 
hostilities  on  such  conditions  as  were  dictated  by  his  treache- 
rous enemy.  She  was  afterwards  solicited  by  Mr.  Rolfe,  a 
respectable  planter  in  marriage.  Powhatan  consented,  and 
the  marriage  was  celebrated  with  extraordinary  pomp. 

From  this  time,  the  most  friendly  intercourse  subsist- 
ed between  the  colonies  and  the  Indians.  Rolfe  and  his  wife 
went  to  England,  where,  by  the  introduction  of  Captain  Smith 
Pochahontas  was  received  by  the  court  with  the  respect  doe 
to  her  birth  ;  she  was  instructed  in  the  Christian  religion,  and 
publicly  baptized.  About  returning  to  America,  Pocahontas 
died  at  Gravesend;  leaving  one  son,  from  whom  are  sprung 
some  of  the  most  respectable  families  of  Virginia. 

Hitherto  no  individual  right  of  property  in  land  was 
established  ;  all  was  holden  and  dealt  out  in  common.  But 
the  governor,  in  1616,  divided  a  considerable  extent  of  land 
into  small  lots,  and  granted  one  of  these  for  ever  to  each  in- 
dividual; from  which  period  the  colony  rapidly  extended. 
The  culture  of  tobacco,  since  become  the  great  staple  of  Vir 


i>34  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


ginia,  was  introduced;  but  the  eager  demand  for  the  article 
in  England,  caused  for  some  time  a  scarcity  of  food  in  the 
colony. 

About  this  time,  a  Dutch  ship  from  the  coast  of  Guinea, 
having  sailed  up  James  River,  sold  to  the  planters  a  part  of 
her  negroes  ;  which  race  has  been  augmented  in  Virginia  by 
successive  importations  and  by  natural  increase,  till  it  forms 
more  than  one  third  part  of  the  population. 

In  1619,  Sir  George  Yeardly,  the  governor,  impelled 
by  that  popular  spirit  of  freedom  which  has  ever  been  the 
characteristic  of  Americans,  called  the  first  general  assembly 
which  was  held  in  Virginia.  At  this  time  eleven  corpora- 
tions sent  representatives  to  the  convention,  which  was  per- 
mitted to  assume  legislative  power,  the  natural  privilege  of 
man.  The  supreme  authority  was  lodged,  partly  in  the  go- 
vernor, partly  in  a  council  of  state  appointed  by  the  compa- 
ny, and  in  a  general  assembly,  composed  of  representative? 
of  the  people. 

A  natural  effect  of  the  happy  change  was  aji  increase 
of  agriculture.  The  company  extended  the  trade  of  the  co- 
lony to  Holland  and  other  countries.  This  measure  pro- 
duced the  first  difference  of  sentiment  between  the  colony  and 
the  parent  state.  Jealous  at  seeing  a  commodity,  (tobacco,) 
for  which  the  demand  was  daily  increasing,  conducted  to 
foreign  ports  beyond  its  control,  thereby  causing  a  diminu- 
tion of  revenue,  the  latter  endeavored  to  check  this  colonial 
enterprise,  without  considering  that  the  restraint  was  a 
breach  of  the  sacred  principles  of  justice. 

The  suspicion  of  the  monarch  James  was  soon  roused, 
and  the  charter,  by  decision  of  the  king's  bench  was  declared 
forfeit  and  the  company  dissolved.  Charles  I.  adopted  all 
his  father's  maxim's  in  respect  to  Virginia,  which,  during  a 
great  part  of  his  reign,  knew  no  other  law  that  the  royal  will. 
But  the  colonists  resisting,  Charles  yielded  to  the" popular 
voice:  he  recalled  Harvey,  the  obnoxious  governor,  and  ap- 
pointed Sir  William  Berkeley,  a  man  of  great  abilities,  pru- 
dent, virtuous,  and  popular;  whose  influence  was  directed  in 
finally  restoring  to  the  people  much  the  same  share  in  the 
government,  as  they  had  enjoyed  previously  to  the  revoca- 
tion of  the  charter. 

After  the  execution  of  the  king,  and  the  establishment 
of  the  commonwealth  under  Cromwell,  through  the  influ- 
ence of  the  governor,  the  colonists  continued  to  adhere  to 
their  loyalty  to  the  king.  In  1651,  the  English  commonwealth 
took  vigorous  measures  to  reduce  the  Virginians  to  obedience. 
A  numerous  squadron,  with  land  forces,  was  dispatched  for 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  235 

this  purpose.  Berkeley  resisted,  but  was  unable  to  maintain 
an  equal  contest,  and  was  soon  defeated.  The  people  were, 
however,  allowed  to  retain  the  privileges  of  citizens ;  but 
Berkeley  retired  as  a  private  citizen. 

Cromwell's  parliament  framed  acts  prohibiting  all  in- 
tercourse between  the  colonies  and  foreign  states,  and  allow- 
ing no  trade  but  in  English  ships.  On  the  death  of  Matthews, 
the  last  governor  appointed  by  Cromwell,  the  Virginians 
burst  out  in  new  violence.  They  called  Sir  WilliarrTBerke- 
ley  from  his  retirement,  boldly  erected  the  royal  standard, 
and  proclaimed  Charles  II.,  son  of  their  late  monarch,  to  be 
*.heir  laAvful  sovereign.  Charles  was  however  soon  placed 
•<m  the  throne,  and  the  Virginians  were  thus  saved  from  the 
ihastisement  to  which  they  were  exposed  by  their  previous 
•leclaration  in  his  favor.  But  the  new  king  and  parliament 
rewarded  their  fidelity  by  increasing  the  restraints  upon  co- 
lonial commerce ! 

The  number  of  inhabitants  in  Virginia  in  1688,  ex- 
ceeded sixty  thousand  j  and  its  population  in  the  previous 
twenty-eight  years  was  doubled.  In  1691,  the  college  of 
William  and  Mary  was  founded.  To  aid  in  its  erection 
and  support,  the  sovereigns  whose  name  ft  bears,  gave  nearly 
two  thousand  pounds  out  of  their  private  purse,  and  granted 
twenty  thousand  acres  of  land,  and  a  duty  on  tobacco,  for 
its  further  encouragement. 


Settlement  of  Massachusetts. 

THE  partition  of  the  great  territory  of  Virginia  into  North 
and  South  colonies,  has  already  been  mentioned.  Still  mote 


236  AMERICAN  HISTORY ; 


feeble  were  the  operations  of  the  Plymouth  company,  to 
whom  was  assigned  the  conduct  of  the  northern  division,  al- 
though animated  by  the  zeal  of  Sir  John  Popham,  chief  jus- 
tice of  England,  Sir  Fernando  Gorges,  and  other  public 
spirited  gentlemen  of  the  west. 

In  the  year  1607,  the  same  in  which  James  Town  was 
founded,  a  small  settlement  was  commenced  on  the  river  Sa- 
gadahoc,  now  called  the  Kennebec  ;  but  this  was  soon  aban- 
doned. Some  fishing  vessels  visited  Cape  Cod  several  times ; 
among  them,  one  commanded  by  Captain  Smith,  who  re- 
turned with  a  high-wrought  description  of  the  coast  and 
country,  exhibiting  a  map  of  the  bays,  harbors,  &c.,  on 
which  he  inscribed  "  New  England;"  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
delighted  with  the  representations  of  Smith,  immediately 
confirmed  the  name. 

To  the  operations  of  religion,  rather  than  to  the  desire 
of  pecuniary  emolument,  are  the  various  settlements  of  New 
England  indebted  for  their  origin.  The  sacred  rights  of  con- 
science and  of  private  judgment  were  not  then  properly  un- 
derstood ;  nor  was  the  charity  and  mutual  forbearance  taught 
Christians  by  their  divine  Master,  .practised  in  any  country. 
Every  church  employed  the  hand  of  power  in  supporting  its 
own  doctrines,  and  opposing  the  tenets  of  another. 

In  reforming  the  rituals  and  exterior  symbols  of  the 
church  of  England,  Elizabeth,  lest  by  too  wide  a  departure 
from  the  Romish  church,  she  might  alarm  the  populace,  had 
allowed  many  of  the  ancient  ceremonies  to  reman  unaltered. 
With  several  of  these  a  large  number  of  her  subjects  being 
dissatisfied,  they  wished  to  address  their  Creator  according 
to  their  own  opinions,  but  were  subjected  to  very  rigorous 
penalties. 

Those  who  dissented  from  the  established  church  ob- 
tained the  general  name  of  Puritans,  a  term  applied  to  them 
because  they  wished  for  a  purer  form  of  discipline  and  wor- 
ship. Among  the  most  popular  and  strenuous  declaimers 
against  the  established  church,  were  the  Brownists,  a  sect 
formed  about  1581,  by  Robert  Brown,  who  afterwards  re- 
nounced his  principles  of  separation,  and  took  orders  in  the 
church  against  which  he  had  so  loudly  declaimed.  The  Rev. 
John  Robinson,  the  father  of  the  first  settlement  of  New 
England,  is  said  to  have  been  a  follower  of  Brown,  but  after- 
wards renounced  the  principles  of  the  Brownists,  and  be- 
came the  founder  of  a  new  sect,  denominated  Independents. 

Mr.  Robinson  affirmed  that  all^  Christian  congregations 
were  so  many  independent  religious  societies,  that  had  a  right 
U>  be  governed  by  their  own  laws,  independent  of  any  foreign 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  237 

jurisdiction.  Being  persecuted  in  England,  he,  with  many 
others  embracing  his  opinions,  removed  to  Holland,  where 
they  formed  churches  upon  their  own  principles.  Remaining 
there  some  years,  the  society  were  desirous  to  remove  to 
some  other  place  :  they  turned  their  thoughts  to  America, 
and  applied  to  James,  who,  though  he  refused  to  give  them 
any  positive  assurance  of  toleration,  seems  to  have  intimated 
some  promise  of  passive  indulgence. 

They  readily  procured  a  tract  of  land  from  the  Ply- 
mouth Company.  One  hundred  and  twenty  persons  sailed 
from  Plymouth  in  1620,  their  destination  being  Hudson's 
river :  by  some  treachery  of  the  Dutch,  who  then  contem- 
plated, and  afterwards  effected  a  settlement  at  that  place, 
they  were  carried  to  the  north,  and  landed  on  Cape  Cod,  the 
eleventh  of  November  of  that  year. 

They  chose  for  their  residence  a  place  called  by  the 
Indians  Patuxet,  to  which  they  gave  the  name  of  New  Ply- 
mouth. Before  spring,  half  their  number  were  cut  off  by 
famine  or  disease.  In  a  few  days  after  they  landed,  Captain 
Standish  was  engaged  in  skirmishing  with  the  Indians ; 
and  the  many  disasters  which  followed,  together  with  the 
implacable  "hostility  of  the  Indians,  which  always  has  sub- 
sisted, are  perhaps  more  owing  to  the  imprudence  of  the  first 
settlers,  than  to  the  bad  disposition  of  the  natives. 

This  colony,  like  that  of  Virginia,  at  first  held  their 
goods  and  property  in  common  ;  and  their  progress  was  re- 
tarded as  well  by  this  circumstance,  as  by  the  impulse  of 
imaginary  inspiration,  which  regulated  all  their  actions.  At 
the  end  of  ten  years,  these  well-meaning  people,  when  they 
became  incorporated  with  their  more  powerful  neighbors  of 
Massachusetts  Bay,  did  not  exceed  three  hundred. 

In  the  year  1629,  Mr.  White,  a  non-conformist  minister 
at  Dorchester,  having  formed  an  association,  purchased  from 
the  Plymouth  company  a  tract  extending  in  length  from 
three  miles  north  of  Merrimac  river,  to  three  miles  south  of 
Charles  river,  and  in  breadth  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  South- 
ern ocean  ;  and  obtained  a  charter  from  Charles,  similar  to 
that  given  to  the  two  Virginian  companies  by  James.  Five 
ships  were  fitted  out,  on  l)oard  of  which  were  embarked  up- 
wards of  three  hundred  souls,  amongst  whom  were  several 
eminent  non-conforming  ministers. 

On  their  arrival,  they  found  the  remnant  of  a  small 
party  that  had  left  England  the  preceding  year,  under  the 
conduct  of  Mr.  Endicott,  who  had  been  appointed  by  his 
companions  deputy  governor.  They  were  settled  at  a  place 
called  by  the  Indians  Naumkeag,  to  which  he  had  given  th* 


238  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

scripture  name  of  Salem.  The  new  colonists  immediately- 
formed  a  church,  elected  a  pastor,  teacher,  and  elder,  disre- 
garding the  intentions  of  the  king.  They  disencumbered 
their  public  worship  of  every  superliuous  ceremony,  and  re- 
duced it  to  the  lowest  standard  of  Calvinistic  simplicity. 

But  much  as  we  respect  that  noble  spirit  which  ena- 
bled them  to  part  with  their  native  soil,  we  must  condemn 
the  persecuting  spirit  of  the  colonists  themselves.  Some  of 
the  colonists,  retaining  a  high  veneration  for  the  ritual  of  the 
church  of  England,  refused  to  join  the  colonial  state  esta- 
blishment, and  assembled  separately  to  worship  ;  Endicott 
called  before  him  two  of  the  principal  offenders,  expelled 
them  from  the  colony,  and  sent  them  home  in  the  first  ships 
returning  to  England. 

The  government  of  the  colony  was  soon  transferred 
to  America,  and  vested  iri  those  members  of  the  company 
who  should  reside  there.  John  Winthrop  was  appointed 
governor,  and  Thomas  Dudley  deputy  governor,  with  eight- 
teen  assistants.  In  the 'course  of  the  next  year,  1630,  fifteen 
hundred  persons  arrived  in  Massachusetts  from  England, 
amongst  whom  were  several  distinguished  families,  some  of 
them  in  easy,  and  others  in  affluent  circumstances;  and 
Boston,  Charlestown,  Dorchester,  Roxbury,  and  other 
towns  were  settled. 

The  first  general  court,  held  at  Charlestown,  ventured 
to  deviate  from  their  charter  in  a  matter  of  great  moment:  a 
law  was  passed,  declaring  that  none  should  be  freemen,  or 
be  entitled  to  any  share  in  the  government,  except  those  who 
had  been  received  as  members  of  the  church. 

The  fanatical  spirit  continued  to  increase.  A  minister 
of  Salem,  named  Roger  Williams,  having  conceived  an 
aversion  to  the  cross  of  St.  George,  a  symbol  in  the  English 
standard,  declaimed  against  it  with  great  vehemence,  as  a 
relic  of  superstition ;  and  Endicott,  in  a  transport  of  zeal, 
cut  out  the  cross  from  the  ensign  displayed  before  the  gov- 
ernor's gate.  This  frivolous  matter  divided  the  colony;  but 
the  matter  was  at  length  compromised  by  retaining  the 
cross  in  the  ensigns  of  forts  and  vessels,  and  erasing  it  from 
the  colors  of  the  militia. 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  239 


Settlement  of  Rhode  Island,  Connecticut,  New  Hampshire 
Maine,  Maryland,  and  North  and  South  Carolina. 

IN  1636,  Roger  Williams  was  banished  from  Salem  ; 
and,  accompanied  by  many  of  his  hearers,  the  exile  went 
south,  purchased  a  tract  of  land  of  the  natives,  to  which  he 
gave  the  name  of  Providence;  and  a  Mr.  Coddington,  with 
seventy-six  others,  exiled  from  Boston,  bought  a  fertile  island 
on  Narraganset  Bay,  that  acquired  the  name  qf  Rhode  Island. 
Mr.  Coddington  embraced  the  sentiments  of  the  Quakers,  or 
Friends  ;  he  received  a  charter  from  the  British  parliament, 
in  which  it  was  ordered,  that  "  none  were  ever  to  be  molested 
for  any  difference  of  opinion  in  religious  matters  :"  yet,  the 
very  first  assembly  convened  on  this  authority,  excluded 
Roman  Catholics  from  voting  at  elections,  and  from  every 
office  in  the  government  ! 

To  similar  causes  the  state  of  Connecticut  is  indebted 
for  its  origin.  Mr.  Hooker,  a  favorite  minister  of  Massachu- 
setts, with  about  one  hundred  families,  'after  a  fatiguing 
march,  settled  on  the  western  side  of  the  river  Connecticut, 
and  laid  the  foundation  of  Hartford,  Springfield,  and  Weath- 
ersfield.  Their  right  to  this  territory  was  disputed  by  the 
Dutch,  who  had  settled  at  the  mouth  of  the  Hudson,  and  by 
the  lords  Say-and-Seal  and  Brook.  The  Dutch  were  soon 
expelled;  and  the  others  uniting  with  the  colony,  all  were 
incorporated  by  a  royal  charter. 

New  Hampshire  was  first  settled  in  the  spring  of  1623, 
under  the  patronage  of  Sir  Ferdinando  Gorges,  Captain  John 


at  a  place  called  Little  Harbor  ;  the  others  settled  at  Dover. 
Mr.  Wheelwright,  a  clergyman,  banished  from  Massa- 
chusetts, founded  Exeter  in  1638. 

Maine  was  riot  permanently  settled  until  1635.  Gorges 
obtained  a  grant  of  this  territory,  which  remain'ed  under  its 
own  government  until  1652,  when  its  soil  and  jurisdiction, 
AS  far  as  the  middle  of  Casco  Bay,  was  claimed  by  Massa- 
chusetts. 

The  mutual  hostility  of  the  English  and  Indians  com- 
menced with  the  first  settlement  ;  but  it  was  not  until  the 
year  1637,  that  a  systematic  warfare  was  begun.  The  P^. 
Hoods,  who  brought  into  the  field  more  than  a  thousand  wsj* 


240  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

riors,  were  exterminated  in  a  few  months  by  the  combined 
troops  of  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut.  In  the  night,  the 
Pequods  were  attacked,  near  the  head  of  Mistic,  by  the  Con- 
necticut troops  and  Narraganset  Indians,  commanded  by 
Captain  Mason:  in  a  few  moments,  five  or  six  hundred  lay 
gasping  in  their  blood,  or  were  silent  in  the  arms  of  death. 
"  The  darkness  of  the  forest,"  observes  a  New  England  au- 
thor, "the  blaze  of  the  dwellings,  the  ghastly  looks  of  the 
dead,  the  groans  of  the  dying,  the  shrieks  of  the  women  and 
children,  and  the  yells  of  the  friendly  savages,  presented  a 
scene  of  sublimity  and  terror  indescribably  dreadful." 

In  1643,  an  alliance  for  mutual  defense  was  formed  be- 
tween the  New  England  colonies,  excepting  Rhode  Island, 
which  Massachusetts  was  unwilling  to  admit.  This  alliance 
continued  until  the  charters  were  annulled  by  James  the 
Second. 

Up  to  1638,  twenty-one  thousand  British  subjects  had 
settled  in  New  England  ;  and  the  country  had  begun  to  ex- 
tend the  fisheries,  arid  to  export  corn  and  lumber  to  the  West 
Indies.  In  1656,  the  persecution  of  the  Quakers  was  at  its 
height.  A  number  of  these  inoffensive  people  having  arrived 
in  die  Massachusetts  colony,  from  England  and  Barbadoes 
and  given  offense  to  the  clergy  of  the  established  church  by 
the  novelty  of  their  religion,  were  imprisoned,  and  by  the 
first  opportunity  sent  away. 

A  law  was  passed,  which  prohibited  masters  of  ships 
from  bringing  Quakers  into  Massachusetts,  and  themselves 
from  coming  there,  under  a  graduated  penalty,  rising,  in  case 
of  a  return  from  banishment  to  death.  In  consequence, 
several  were  hanged  !  These  proceedings  are  still  the  more 
reprehensible  and  remarkable,  when  contrasted  with  a  pre- 
vious declaration  of  their  government,  which  tendered  "hos- 
pitality and  succor  to  all  Christian  strangers,  flying  from 
wars,  famine,  or  the  tyranny  of  persecution."  The  Ana- 
baptists were  also  persecuted  ;  many  were  disfranchised, 
and  some  were  banished. 

On  the  accession  of  James  II.,  several  of  the  New  Eng- 
land colonies  were  deprived  of  their  charters  ;  but  these,  with 
various  unimportant  modifications,  were  restored  after  the 
revolution.  Sir  William  Phipps,  a  native  of  Maine,  who 
rose  to  wealth  and  power  in  a  manner  the  most  extraordina- 
ry, was  the  first  governor  of  Massachusetts  under  the  new 
charter.  With  a  force  of  seven  hundred  men,  he  wrested 
from  the  French,  L'Acadie,  now  called  Nova  Scotia.  He 
afterwards  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  on  Quebec,  with 
the  loss  of  one  thousand  men. 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  241 


The  new  charter,  whilst  it  curtailed  the  liberties,  ex- 
tended the  territory  of  Massachusetts ;  to  it  were  now  annex- 
ed New  Plymouth,  Maine,  and  Nova  Scotia,  with  all  the 
country  between  the  latter  and  the  river  St. Lawrence;  also 
Elizabeth  Islands,  Martha's  Vineyard,  and  Nantucket.  The 
people,  however,  had  just  reason  to  complain  that  they  no 
longer  chose  their  governor,  under  whose  control  was  the 
militia,  and  who  levied  taxes  without  their  consent,  and 
tried  capital  offenses. 

About  this  time  the  pillars  of  society  were  shaken  to 
the  foundation,  in  and  about  Salem,  by  imaginary  witch- 
craft. The  delusion  commenced  in  Salem  village,  now  Dan- 
vers,  in  the  family  of  Rev.  Samuel  Paris.  Two  young  girls, 
one  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Paris,  aged  9,  the  other  a  niece,  aged 
11,  were  affected  with  singular  nervous  disorders,  which,  as 
they  baffled  the  skill  of  the  physician,  were  thought  to  pro- 
ceed from  an  "  evil  hand."  The  children  were  believed  by 
the  neighbors  to  be  bewitched,  and  the  belief,  sanctioned  by 
the  opinion  of  the  physician,  became  general  throughout  the 
vicinity. 

The  more  the  girls  were  noticed  and  pitied,  the  more 
singular  and  extravagant  was  their  conduct.  Upon  the  ad- 
vice of  the  neighboring  ministers,  two  or  three  private  fasts 
were  first  kept ;  afterwards  a  public  one  in  the  village  and 
other  congregations ;  and  finally,  the  general  court  appointed 
a  fast  through  the  colony.  This  course  gave  the  occurrences 
a  solemn  aspect,  and  probably  contributed  to  the  public  cre- 
dulity, till  the  supposed  witchcraft  had  extended  throughout 
a  great  part  of  the  county  of  Essex.  The  infatuation  pre- 
vailed from  March  to  October,  1692,  during  whick  time 
twenty  persons,  men  and  women,  were  executed.  It  was 
then  that  suspicion  roused  from  its  lethargy  ;  condemnation 
ceased;  the  accusers  were  silent;  those  under  sentence 
were  reprieved,  and  afterwards  pardoned. 

In  the  years  1627,  '38,  '63,  and  '70,  New  England  ex- 
perienced violent  earthquakes.  In  the  year  1638,  Harvard 
College,  near  Boston,  the  oldest  seminary  of  learning  in  the 
United  States,  was  founded.  Four  hundred  pounds  were 
roted  to  it  by  the  general  court ;  and  this  sum  was  nearly 
doubled  by  a  bequest  from  Mr.  John  Harvard,  a  minister  of 
Charlestown.  This  institution  is  now  the  most  richly  en- 
dowed of  all  the  American  colleges. 

Yale  College,  at  New  Haven,  was  founded  in  1701, 
ten  years  after  that  of  William  and  Mary,  in  Virginia;  an<i 
Dartmouth  College,  in  New  Hampshire,  wa*  founded  in  1769* 
The  first  printing  press  established  in  the  British  colonies 

14 


242  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


was  In  1639,  at  Cambridge,  superintended  by  Stephen  Daye  ; 
but  erected  chiefly  at  the  expense  of  Mr.  Glover,  an  English 
clergyman,  who  died  on  his  passage  to  America. 

Maryland,  the  first  colony  that,  from  its  beginning, 
was  directly  governed  as  a  province  of  the  British  empire, 
was  founded  by  Sir  George  Calvert,  baron  of  Baltimore  in 
Ireland,  a  Roman  Catholic  nobleman,  born  in  England.  He 
first  went  to  Virginia;  but  meeting  an  unwelcome  reception 
there,  on  account  of  his  religion,  he  fixed  his  attention  to  the 
lands  north  p4f  the  Potomac,  and  obtained  a  grant  of  them 
from  Charles  I.  This  country  was  called  Maryland,  in 
honor  of  the  queen,  'Henrietta  Maria. 

The  religious  toleration  established  by  .the  charter,  the 
first  draft  of  which  is  said  to  have  been  written  by  Sir  George 
himself,  is  honorable  to  his  memory.  The  grant  was  given 
to  his  eldest  son,  Cecilius,  who  succeeded  to  his  titles;  but 
Leonard  Calvert,  brother  to  Cecilius,  was  the  first  governor, 
and  made  the  first  stand,  at  an  island  in  the  Potomac,  which, 
he  named  St.  Clement's,  in  1633.  He  made  several  pur- 
chases of  the  Indians,  with  whom  he  cultivated  a  constant 
friendship,  as  well  on  the  Potomac  as  on  both  shores  of  the 
Chesapeake. 

J^ever  did  any  people  enjoy  more  happiness  than  the 
inhabitants  of  Maryland.  Whilst  Virginia  harassed  all 
who  dissentec|  from  the  English  church,  and  the  northern 
colonies  all  who  dissented  from  the  puritans,  the  Roman 
Catholics  of  Maryland,  a  sect  who  in  the  old  world  never 
professed  the  doctfine  of  toleration,  received  and  protected 
their  brethren  of  eyery  Christian  church,  and  its  population 
was  rapidly  increased. 

About  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  some 
emigrants,  chiefly  from  Virginia,  began  a  settlement  in  the 
county  of  Albemarle;  and  soon  afterwards,  another  estab- 
lishment was  commenced  at  Cape  Fear,  by  adventurers  from 
Massachusetts.  These  were  held  together  by  the  laws  of 
nature  without  any  written  code,  for  some  time.  But  Charles 
JI.  compelled  the  colonists  to  become  subservient  to  his 
rule,  and  granted  to  Lord  Clarendon  and  others  the  tract  of 
land  which  now  composes  North  and  South  Carolina ;  per- 
fect freedom  in  religion  was  granted  in  the  charter. 

The  first  settlement  was  placed  under  the  command 
of  Sir  William  Berkeley,  Governor  of  Virginia,  who  assigned 
jus  authority  to  Mr.  Drummond.  In  1671,  the  proprietors 
extended  their  settlements  to  the  brinks  of  Ashley  and  Coop- 
er rivers,  where  £harlestown  now  stands ;  and  eventually 
|nis  mscame  the  separate  state  of  South  Carolina.  The  culture 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  243 


of  cotton  commenced  here  in  1700,  and  that  of  indigo  in 
1748. 


Settlement  of  New  York,  New  Jersey,  Pennsylvania,  Dela- 
ware, and  Georgia. 

NEW  YORK  was  first  settled  by  the  Dutch,  and  was  by  them 
held  for  about  half  a  century.  It  was  however  claimed  by 
England  as  the  first  discoverer.  Peter  Stuyvesarot,  the  third 
and  last  Dutch  governor,  began  his  administration  in  1647, 
and  was  distinguished  no  less  for  his  fidelity  than  his  vigi- 
lance. In  1664  the  colony  surrendered  to  the  English ;  and 
the  whole  territory  now  comprising  New  York,  New  Jersey, 
together  with  Pennsylvania,  Delaware,  and  a  part  of  Con- 
necticut, was  assigned  by  Charles  II.  to  his  brother  the  Duke 
of  York.  The  Dutch  inhabitants  remained  ;  Stuyvesant  re- 
tained his  estate,  and  died  in  the  colony.  The  country  was 
governed  by  the  duke's  officers  until  1688;  when  representa- 
tives of  the  people  were  allowed  a  voice  in  the  legislature. 

In  1664,  the  Duke  of  York  sold  that  part  of  his  grant 
now  called  New  Jersey  to  Lord  Berkeley  and  Sir  George 
Carteret.  It  had  previously  been  settled  by  Hollanders, 
Swedes,  and  Danes.  The  county  of  Bergen  was  the  first 
inhabited  ;  and  very  soon  the  towns  of  Elizabeth,  Newark, 
Middletown,  and  Shrewsbury,  were  settled.  The  college, 
originally  established  at  New'ark,  was,  in  1748,  finally  fixed 
at  Princeton :  its  chief  benefactor  was  Governor  Belcher. 
Among  the  governors  of  New  Jersey  was  the  celebrated  Bar- 
clay, author  of  the  Apology  for  the  Quakers,  of  which  sect 
a  large  number  had  established  themselves  there. 

Pennsylvania  was  founded  by  William  Penn,  son  of  a 
distinguished  admiral  of  the  same  name.  From  principle 
this  excellent  man  joined  the  Quakers,  then  an  obscure  and 
persecuted  sect.  As  one  of  the  members,  and  a  preacher, 
Penn  was  repeatedly  imprisoned ;  but  he  pleaded  his  own 
cause  with  great  boldness,  and  procured  his  own  acquittal 


244  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

from  an  independent  jury,  who  with  himself  were  imprison- 
ed until  an  unjust  penalty  was  paid. 

In  1631,  he  purchased  of  Charles  the  tract  now  called 
Pennsylvania,  for  an  acquittance  of  sixteen  thousand  pounds 
due  to  his  father:  and  soon  after,  he  obtained  from  the  Duke 
of  York  a  conveyance  of  the  town  of  New  Castle,  with  the 
country  which  now  forms  the  state  of  Delaware.  The  first 
colony,  which  were  chiefly  of  his  own  sect,  began  their  set- 
tlement above  the  confluence  of  the  Schuylkill  ana*  Delaware 
rivers.  In  August,  1682,  this  amiable  man  embarked,  with 
about  two  thousand  emigrants,  and  in  October,  arrived  in  the 
Delaware. 

Besides  his  own  people,  he  was  aided  in  the  first  settle- 
ment by  Swedes,  Dutch,  Finlanders,  and  other  English.  The 
first  legislative  assembly  was  held  at  Chester,  at  that  time 
called  Upland.  Among  the  first  laws  was  one  which  de- 
clared "  that  none,  acknowledging  one  God,  and  living 
peaceable  in  society,  should  be  molested  for  his  opinions  or 
his  practice ;  nor  be  compelled  to  frequent  or  maintain  any 
ministry  whatever."  Philadelphia  was  begun  in  1683,  and 
in  1699,  it  contained  seven  hundred  houses,  and  about  four 
thousand  inhabitants. 

During  the  first  seventy  years  of  this  settlement,  no 
instance  occurred  of  the  Indians  killing  unarmed  people. 
The  wise  and  good  man,  Penn,  made  every  exertion  and  sa- 
crifice to  promote  the  peace  and  prosperity  of  his  favorite 
colony  ;  and  between  the  persecution  he  had  to  encounter  in 
England,  and  the  difficulties  in  Pennsylvania,  his  life  was  a 
continued  scene  of  vexation — his  private  fortune  was  materi- 
ally injured  by  the  advances  he  made — he  was  harassed  by 
his  creditors,  and  obliged  to  undergo  a  temporary  deprivation 
of  his  personal  liberty. 

He  died  in  London,  in  1718,  leaving  an  inheritance  to 
his  children  ultimately  of  immense  value,  which  they  en- 
joyed until  the  revolution,  when  it  was  assigned  to  the  com- 
monwealth for  an  equitable  sum  of  money.  In  the  interval 
between  1730  and  the  war  of  the  revolution,  in  this  state, 
there  was  a  great  influx  of  emigrants,  principally  from  Ger- 
many and  Ireland ;  and  these  people  early  brought  the 
useful  arts  and  manufactures  into  Pennsylvania.  To  the 
Germans  she  is  indebted  for  the  spinning  and  weaving  of  , 
linen  and  woolen  cloths  ;  to  the  Irish,  for  various  trades 
indispensable  to  useful  agriculture. 

Delaware  was  first  settled  in  1627,  by  the  Swedes  and 
Finlanders,  and  the  colony  bore  the  name  of  New  Sweden, 
It  was  afterwards  conquered  by  the  Dutch  from  New  York. 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  245 

and  remained  subservient  to  that  colony,  until  it  passed  in 
to  the  hands  of  the  English. 

Georgia  was  the  last  settled  of  the  thirteen  colonies  tha. 
revolted  from  Britain.  It  received  its  name  from  George  II. 
In  November,  1732,  one  hundred  and  sixteen  persons  embarked 
at  Gravesend,  under  Oglethorpe ;  andearly  in  the  ensuing  year 
arrived  at  Charleston.  From  this  port  they  proceeded  to  theif 
destined  territory,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  Savannah. 

The  Spaniards  laid  claim  to  this  territory,  and  made 
extensive  preparations  to  attack  it.  But  through  the  finesse 
of  Oglethorpe,  in  practising  an  innocent  deception,  their 
plans  were  defeated.  For  many  years,  this  settlement  lan- 
guished from  a  variety  of  causes.  General  Oglethorpe  was 
distinguished  as  a  soldier,  a  statesman,  and  a  philanthropist; 
At  the  beginning  of  the  American  revolution,  he  was  offered 
the  command  of  the  British  army  in  America,  but  this  from 
principle  he  declined.  After  the  contest  was  decided,  he 
died  at  the  age  of  ninety-seven  years,  being  the  oldest  gene- 
ral in  the  British  service. 


War  with  France  and  conquest  of  Canada. 

NEARLY  coeval  with  the  first  English  settlement  at 
James  Town,  in  Virginia,  was  the  establishment  of  a  French 
colony  at  Quebec,  on  the  great  river  St.  Lawrence.  The 
question  of  boundary  between  England  and  France,  had 
long  been  a  subject  of  unavailing  negotiation.  France, 
besides  having  Canada  in  the  north,  had  also  discovered  and 
settled  on  the  Mississippi  in  the  south  ;  and  in  1753,  she 
strove,  by  a  military  chain,  the  links  of  which  were  to  he 
formed  by  outposts  stretching  along  the  Ohio  and  the  lakes, 
to  connect  these  two  extremities,  and  thus  restrain  th« 
British  colonists  to  a  small  territory  on  the  Atlantic  ocean, 
if  not  entirely  expel  them  from  the  country. 

The  question  of  jurisdiction  remained  to  be  decided  by 
the  sword.  Repeated  complaints  of  violence  having  come 
to  the  ears  of  the  Governor  of  Virginia,  he  determined  to 
send  a  suitable  person  to  the  French  commander  at  Fort  Du 
Gluesne.  (now  Pittsburgh,)  demanding  the  reason  of  hishos* 
tile  proceedings,  and  insisting  that  he  should  evacuate  th* 
Jbrt  which  he  had  recently  erected.  For  this  arduous  w** 


246  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

dertaking,  George  Washington,  a  major  of  militia,  then  lit- 
tle more  than  twenty-one  years  of  age,  offered  his  services. 

The  execution  of  this  task  seems  to  have  been  accom- 
plished with  all  that  prudence  and  courage,  which  were  so 
eminently  displayed  by  this  hero  in  afterlife.  At  imminent 
peril,  being  waylaid  and  fired  at  by  the  Indians,  he  not  only 
faithfully  accomplished  the  errand  on  which  he  had  been  sent, 
but  gained  extensive  information  of  the  distances  and  bear- 
ings of  places,  and  of  the  number,  size,  and  strength  of  nearly 
all  the  enemy's  fortresses. 

The  reply  of  the. French  commander  brought  matters 
to  a  crisis;  and  in  1754,  the  Virginia  assembly  organized  a 
regiment,  to  support  the  claims  of  the  English  over  the  ter- 
ritory in  dispute  :  of  this  regiment  a  Mr.  Fry  was  appointed 
colonel,  and  the  young  Washington  lieutenant-colonel.  Col. 
Fry  dying,,  the  command  of  the  whole  devolved  on  Wash- 
ington. The  French  having  been  strongly  reinforced,  Wa'sh- 
ington  was  obliged  to  fall  back — was  attacked  in  works  which 
he  had  not  time  to  complete,  and,  after  a  brave  defense,  was 
obliged  to  capitulate, — the  enemy  allowing  him  to  march  out 
with  the  honors  of  war,  and  retire  unmolested  to  the  inha- 
bited parts  of  Virginia. 

The  next  year,  1755,  General  Braddock  was  sent  from 
Europe  to  Virginia,  with  two  regiments,  where  he  was  join- 
ed by  as  .many  provincials  as  made  his  force  amount  to  twen- 
ty-two hundred.  Braddock  was  a  brave  man,  but  lacked 
that  courtesy  which  could  conciliate  the  Americans,  and  that 
modesty  which  should  profit  from  the  knowledge  of  those 
who  better  knew  the  ground  over  which  he  was  to  pass,  and 
the  mode  of  French  and  Indian  warfare,  than  himself.  He 
pushed  on  incautiously,  until  within  a  few  miles  of  fort  Du 
Quesne,  he  fell  into  an  ambush  of  French  and  Indians. 

In  a  short  time,  Washington,  who  acted  as  aid  to  Brad- 
dock,  and  whose  duty  called  him  to  be  on  horseback,  was  the 
only  person  mounted  who  was  left  alive,  or  not  wounded. 
The  van  of  the  army  was  forced  back,  and  the  whole  thrown 
into  confusion.  The  slaughter  was  dreadful.  Braddock  was 
mortally  wounded.  What  was  remarkable,  the  provincial 
troops  preserved  their  order,  and  covered  the  retreat  under 
Washington ;  while  the  regulars  broke  their  ranks,  and  could 
not  be  rallied. 

Three  successive  campaigns  procured 'nothing  but  ex- 
pense and  disappointment  to  the  English.  With  an  inferior 
force,  the  French  had  succeeded  in  every  campaign ;  and 
gloomy  apprehensions  were  entertained  as  to  the  destiny  of 
the  British  colonies.  But  in  1756,  a  change  of  ministry  in 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  247 

England  took  place..  William  Pitt  was  placed  at  the  helm. 
To  despair,  succeeded  hope ;  and  to  hope,  victory.  Supplies 
were  granted  with  liberality,  and  given  without  reluctance ; 
tsoldiers  enlisted  freely,  and  fought  with  enthusiasm. 

In  a  short  time  the  French  were  dispossessed,  not  only 
of  all  the  territories  in  dispute,  but  of  Quebec,  and  her  an- 
cient province  of  Canada  ;  so  that  all  which  remained  to  her 
of  her  numerous  settlements  in  North  America,  was  New- 
Orleans,  with  a  few  plantations  on  the  Mississippi.  Full  of 
youth  and  spirit,  the  gallant  General  Wolf,  who  led  the  Eu- 
ropean and  colonial  troops  to  victory  ,,fell  before  the  walls  of 
Quebec,  in  the  moment  of  sticcess.  In  1762,  hostilities  hav- 
ing raged  nearly  eight  years,  a  general  peace  was  concluded : 
France  ceded  Canada,  and  Spain  relinquished,  as  the  price  of 
recovering  Havana,  which  had  been  taken  by  the  British, 
both  the  Floridas  to  Great  Britain.' 


Difficulties  between  Great  Britain  and  the  Colonies,  and 
the  consequent  War  of  the  Revolution. 

ALTHOUGH  the  American  colonies  had  principally  con- 
tributed to  the  great  extension  of  the  rjower  of  Great  Britain, 
co-operating  with  the  vigilance  of  mord  than  four  hundred 
cruisers  on  the  sea,  and  furnishing  more  than  twenty-four 
thousand  soldiers ;  yet  the  latter  regarded  her  plantations  as 
mere  instruments  in  her  hands.  On  the  contrary,  the  higk 
sentiments  of  liberty  and  independence  nurtured  in  the  co- 
lonies from  their  local  situation  and  habits,  were  increased 
by  the  removal  of  hostile  neighbors.  Ideas  favorable  to  in- 
dependence increased ;  and  whilst  combustible  materials  were 
collecting  in  the  new  world,  a  brand-  to  enkindle  them  wa« 
preparing  in  the  old. 

In  1765,  under  the  auspices  of  the  minister,  George 


248  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


Grenville,  the  obnoxious  stamp  act  passed  in  the  British  par 
liament, — by  which  the  instruments  of  writing  in  daily  use 
were  to  be  null  and  void,  unless,  executed  on  paper  or  parch- 
ment stamped  with  a  specific  duty  :  law  documents,  leases, 
deeds  and  indentures,  newspapers  and  advertisements,  alma- 
nacs and  pamphlets,  executed  and  printed  in  America, — all 
must  contribute  to  the  British  treasury. 

The  bill  did  not  pass  without  the  decided  opposition  of 
patriots  in  the  British  legislature,  who  foretold  the  result,  and 
who  declared  that,  the  colonies  being  planted  by  British  op- 
pression, and  having  assisted  the  mother  country,  ihe  mother 
nad  no  claim  on  the  child  to  derive  from  it  a  revenue.  The 
bill  did  not  take  effect  until  seven  months  after  its  passage ; 
thus  giving  the  colonists  an  opportunity  of  leisurely  exami- 
ning and  viewing  the  subject  on  every  side. 

They  were  struck  with  silent  consternation  ;  but  the 
voice  of  opposition  was  first  heard  in  Virginia.  Patrick 
Henry,  on  the  20th  of  May,  brought  into  the  house  of  bur- 
gesses in  that  colony,  a  number  of  resolutions,  which  were 
adopted,  and  which  concluded  with  declaring,  "  That  every 
individual,  who,  by  speaking  or  acting,  should  assert  or  main- 
tain that  any  person  or  body  of  men,  except  the  general  as- 
sembly of  the  province,  had  any  right  to  impose  taxation 
there,  should  be  deemed  an  enemy  to  his  majesty's  colony." 
These  resolutions  were  immediately  disseminated 
through  the  other  provinces, — the  tongues  and  the  pens  of 
well-informed  men  labored  in  the  holy  cause, — the  fire  of  liber- 
ty blazed  forth  from  the  press.  The  assembly  of  Massachusetts 
passed  a  resolution  in  favor  of  a  continental  congress,  and 
fixed  a  day  for  its  meeting  at  New-York,  in  Octobe  Th« 
other  colonies,  with  the  exception  of  four,  ao  e/ie-  «,ue  mrita 
lion,  and  assembled  at  the  appointed  place.  Here  they  agreed 
on  a  declaration  of  their  rights.  There  was,  however,  a 
considerable  degree  of  timidity  evinced  in  this  congress. — 
The  boldest  and  most  impressive  arguments  were  offered  by 
James  Otis  of  Massachusetts. 

The  time  arrived  for  the  act  to  take  effect ;  and  the  aver- 
sion to  it  was  expressed  in  still  stronger  terms  throughout 
the  colonies.  By  a  common  consent,  its  provisions  were  dis- 
regarded, and  business  was  conducted,  in  defiance  of  the  par- 
liament, as  if  no  stamp  act  was  in  .existence:  associations 
were  formed  against  importing  British  manufactures  until 
the  law  should  be  repealed ;  and  lawyers  were  prohibited 
from  instituting  any  action  for  money  due  to  any  inhabitant 
of  England. 

The  spirited  conduct  of  the  colonists  affecting  the  ia- 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  240 

terests  of  the  British  merchants,  had  the  desired  effect. 
Warm  discussions  took  place  in,  the  British  parliament,  and 
the  ablest  speakers  in  both  houses  denied  the  justice  of  tax- 
ing the  colonies.  The  opposition  could  not  be  withstood  j 
and  in  March,  1766,  the  law  was  repealed.  Simultaneously, 
however,  with  repealing  this  act,  the  British  Parliament 
passed  another,  declaring  that  the  British  parliament  had  a 
right  to  make  laws  binding  the  colonies  in  all  cases  what- 
ever; and  soon  after  another  bill  was  passed,  imposing  in 
the  colonies  duties  on  glass,  paper,  painters'  colors,  and  tea. 

The  fire  of  opposition  was  now  rekindled  with  addition- 
al ardor,  by  the  same  principle,  exhibited  in  its  new  form. — 
The  best  talents  throughout  the  colonies  were  engaged  in 
the  public  prints  and  in  pamphlets,  to  work  up  the  public  feel- 
ing against  the  arbitrary  measures  of  the  British  parliament-. 
New  associations  were  formed  to  suspend  the  importation  of 
British  manufactures.  The  Massachusetts  assembly,  having 
passed  resolutions  to  this  effect)  drew  forth  the  marked  dis- 
pleasure of  the  crown  ;  and)  on  their  refusal  to  cancel  their 
resolutions,  were  dissolved. 

In  1768,  Mr.  Hancock's  sloop  Liberty  was  seized  at 
Boston,  for  not  entering  all  the  wines  she  had  brought  from 
Madeira :  this  inflamed  the  populace  to  a  high  degree  of  re- 
sentment. Soon  afterwards*  two  British  regiments,  and 
some  armed  vessels,  were  sent  to  Boston,  to  assist  the  reve- 
nue officers.  The  parliament,  encouraged  by  the  expectation 
of  quelling  the  refractory  by  their  arms,  continued  to  dissolve 
the  opposing  assemblies  j  but  the  colonies  remained  firm  in 
their  purposes. 

Lord  North  succeeded  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  as  British 
premier  in  1770 ;  and  the  act  was  repealed  imposing  a  duty 
on  glass,  paper,  and  painters'  colors ;  but  that  on  tea  was  rea 
tained.  Some  slight  prospect  of  allaying  the  difficulties  sue^- 
ceeded.  But  on  the  second  of  March  an  affray  took  place  in 
Boston,  between  a  private  soldier  and  an  inhabitant.  This 
was  succeeded,  in  a  few  days  afterwards,  by  a  mob  meeting 
a  party  of  British  soldiers  under  arms,  who  were  dared  to 
fire,  and  who  at  length  did  fire,  and  killed  five  persons.  The 
captain  who  commanded,  and  the  troops  who  fired,  were 
afterwards  tried  for  murder,  and  acquitted. 

Things  continued  in  this  mode  of  partial  irritation 
until  1773,  when  the  British  East  India  Company  were  au* 
thorized  to  export  their  tea  to  all  places,  free  of  duty.  As  this 
would  enable  them  to  sell  that  article  cheaper  in  America, 
with  the  government  exactions,  than  they  had  before  sold  it 
without  them,  it  was  confidently  calculated  that  teas  might 

14' 


260  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

be  extensively  disposed  of  in  the  colonies.  Large  consign- 
ments of  tea  were  sent  to  various  ports,  and  agents  appoint- 
ed lor  its  disposal. 

The  consignees,  in  several  places,  were  compelled  to 
relinquish  their  appointments.  Popular  vengeance  prevented 
the  landing  at  New  York  or  Philadelphia.  In  Boston  it  was 
otherwise.  The  tea  for  the  supply  of  that  port  was  consign- 
ed to  the  sons  and  particular  friends  of  Governor  Hutchin- 
sbn.  The  tea  was  landed  by  the  strenuous  exertions  of  the 
governor  and  consignees.  But  soon  a  party  of  men.  dressed 
as  Indians  boarded  the  tea  ships,  broke  open  the  cargoes, 
and  threw  the  contents  into  the  sea. 

Enraged  against  the  people  of  Boston,  the  parliament 
resolved  to  take  legislative  vengeance  on  that  devoted  town. 
Disregarding  the  forms  of  the  British  constitution,  by  which 
none  are  to  be  punished  without  trial,  they  passed  a  bill, 
closing,  in  a  commercial  sense,  its  port:  its  custom  house 
and  trade  were  soon  after  removed  to  Salem.  The  charter 
of  the  colony  was  new  modelled,  so  that  the  whole  executive 
government  was  taken  from  the  people,  and  the  nomination 
to  all  important  offices  vested  in  the  crown  ;  and  it  was  en- 
acted, that  if  any  person  was  indicted  for  any  capital  offense 
committed  in  aiding  the  magistrates,  he  might  be  sent  to 
Great  Britain  or  another  colony  for  trial. 

Property,  liberty,  and  life,  Were  thus  subject  to  minis- 
terial caprice.  The  parliament  went  still  farther,  and  passed 
an  act  extending  the  boundaries  of  Canada,  southward  td 
the  Ohio,  westward  to  the  Mississippi,  and  northward  to  the 
borders  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  assimilating  its  laws 
witk  the  French,  which  dispensed  with  the  trial  by  jury, 
and  rendering  the  inhabitants  passive  agents  in  the  hands  of 
power. 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  261 


The  same  subject  ctilitinued. 

Tilt  flame  was  now  kindled  In  every  breast ;  and  asso- 
ciations were  formed,  and  committees  of  correspondence 
were  established,  which  produced  a  unity  of  thought  and 
action  throughout  the  colonies.  General  Gage,  the  British 
commander  in  chief,  arrived  in  Boston,  in  1774,  with  more 
troops,  with  the  avowed  intention  of  dragooning  the  refrac- 
tory Bostonians  into  compliance.  A  general  sympathy  was 
excited  for  the  suffering  inhabitants  of  Boston :  addresses 
poured  in  from  all  quarters;  Marblehead  offered  to  the  Bos- 
ton merchants  the  use  of  their  wharves,  and  Salem  refused 
to  adopt  the  trade,  the  offer  of  which  had  been  proffered  as  a 
temptation  to  her  cupidity. 

Affairs  rapidly  approached  a  crisis.  The  preparations 
for  offense  and  defense,  induced  General  Gage  to  fortify 
Boston,  and  to  seize  on  the  powder  lodged  at  the  arsenal  at 
Charlestowh. 

In  September,  deputies  from  most  of  the  fcolonies  met 
in  congress,  at  Philadelphia.  These  delegates  approved  of 
the  conduct  of  the  people  of  Massachusetts ;  wrote  a  letter 
to  General  Gage;  published  a  declaration  of  rights;  formed 
an  association  not  to  import  or  use  British  goods ;  sent  a1 
petition  to  the  king  of  Great  Britain;  an  address  to  the  in-, 
habitants  of  that  kingdom ;  another  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Canada;  and  another  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  colonies.  In 
the  beginning  of  the  next  year,  (1775,)  wflts  passed  thejisfieri/ 
bill,  by  which  the  northern  colonies  Were  forbidden  to  fisri 
on  the  banks  of  Newfoundland  for  a  certain  time.  This 
bore  hard  upon  the  commerce  of  these  colonies,  which  was1 
in  a  great  measure  supported  by  the  fishery. 

Soon  after,  another  bill  was  passed,  which  restrained 
the  trade  of  the  middle  and  southern  colonies  to  Great 
Britain,  Ireland,  and  the  West  Indies,  except  under  certain 
conditions.  These  repeated  acts  of  oppression  on  the  part 
of  Great  Britain,  alienated  the  affections  of  America  from 
her  parent  and  sovereign,  and  produced  a  combined  opposi- 
tion to  the  whole  system  df  taxation.  Preparations  began  to 
be  made  to  oppose  by  force  the  execution  of  these  acts  of 
parliament.  The  militia  of  the  country  were  trained  to  the 
use  of  arms — great  encouragement  was  given  to  the  manu- 
facture of  gunpowder,  and  measures  Were  taken  to  obtaiii 
all  kinds  of  military  stores. 


252  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

In  February,  Colonel  Leslie  was  sent  with  a  detach- 
ment of  troops  from  Boston,  to  take  possession  of  some  can- 
non at  Salem.  But  the  people  had  intelligence  of  the  design 
— took  up  the  drawbridge  in  that  town,  and  prevented  the 
troops  from  passing,  until  the  cannon  were  secured;  so  that 
the  expedition  failed.  In  April,  Colonel  Smith  and  Major 
Pitcairn  were  sent  with  a  body  of  troops,  to  destroy  the  mi- 
litary stores  which  had  been  collected  at  Concord,  about 
twenty  miles  from  Boston.  At  Lexington  the  militia  were 
collected  on  a  green,  to  oppose  the  incursion  of  the  British 
forces.  These  were  fired  upon  by  the  British  troops,  and 
eight  men  killed  on  the  spot. 

The  militia  were  dispersed,  and  the  troops  proceeded  to 
Concord,  where  they  destroyed  a  few  stores.  But  on  their 
return  they  were  incessantly  harassed  by  the  Americans, 
xvho,  inflamed  with  just  resentment,  fired  upon  them  from 
houses  aiid  fences,  and  pursued  them  to  Boston.  Here  was 
spilled  the  first  blood  in  the  war  which  severed  America  from 
the  British  empire,  Lexington  opened  the  first  scene  of  the 
great  drama,  which,  in  its  progress,  exhibited  the  most  illus 
trious  characters  and  events,  and  closed  with  a  revolution 
equally  glorious  fur  the  actors,  and  important  in  its  conse 
quences  to  the  human  race. 

This  battle  roused  all  America.  The  militia  collected 
from  all  quarters,  and  Boston  was  in  a  few  days  besieged  by 
twenty  thousand  men.  A  stop  was  put  to  all  intercourse  be- 
tween the  town  and  country,  and  the  inhabitants  were  re- 
duced to  great  want  of  provisions.  General  Gage  promised 
to  let  the  people  depart,  if  they  would  deliver  up  their  arms. 
The  people  complied;  but  when  the  general  had  obtained 
their  arms,  he  refused  to  let  the  people  go. 

In  the  mean  time,  a  small  number  of  men,  under  the 
command  of  Colonel  Allen  and  Colonel  Easton,  without  any 
public  orders,  surprised  and  took  the  British  garrison  at  Ti 
conderoga  without  the  loss  of  a  man. 

9.  In  June  following,  our  troops  attempted  to  fortify  Bun- 
ker's Hill,  which  lies  in  Charlestown,  and  but  a  mile  and  a 
half  from  Boston.  They  had  during  the  night  thrown  up  a 
small  breastwork,  which  sheltered  them  from  the  fire  of  the 
British  cannon.  But  the  next  morning,  the  British  army 
was  sent  to  drive  them  from  the  hill ;  and  landing  under 
cover  of  their  cannon,  they  set  fire  to  Charlestown,  which 
was  consumed,  and  marched  to  attack  our  troops  in  the  en- 
trenchments. 

A  severe  engagement  ensued,  in  which  the  British  suf- 
fered a  very  great  loss,  both  of  officers  and  privates.     They 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  253 

were  repulsed  at  first,  and  thrown  into  disorder;  but  they 
finally  carried  the  fortification  with  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 
The  Americans  suffered  a  small  loss  compared  with  the  Bri- 
tish ;  but  the  death  of  the  brave  General  Warren,  who  fell 
in  the  action,  a  martyr  to  the  cause  of  his  country,  was  se- 
verely felt  and  universally  lamented. 

About  this  time,  the  continental  congress  appointed 
George  Washington,  Esq.  to  the  chief  command  of  the  con- 
tinental arrny.  This  gentleman  had  been  a  distinguished 
and  successful  officer  in  the  preceding  war,  and  he  seemed 
destined  by  Heaven  to  be  the  savior  of  his  country.  He  ac- 
cepted the  appointment  with  a  diffidence  which  was  proof 
of  his  prudence  aud  his  greatness.  He  refused  any  pay  for 
eight  years  laborious  and  arduous  service  ;  and  by  his  match- 
less skill,  fortitude,  and  perseverance,  conducted  America, 
through  indescribable  difficulties,  to  independence  and  peace. 
While  true  merit  is  esteemed,  or  virtue  honored,  mankind 
will  never  cease  to  revere  the  memory  of  this  hero ;  and 
while  gratitude  remains  in  the  human  breast,  the  praises  of 
WASHINGTON  shall  dwell  on  every  American  tongue. 

General  Washington,  with  other  officers  appointed  by 
congress,  arrived  at  Cambridge,  and  took  command  of  the 
American  army  in  July.  From  this  time,  the  affairs  of 
America  began  to  assume  the  appearance  of  a  regular  and 
general  opposition  to  the  forces  of  Great  Britain. 

In  autumn,  a  body  of  troops,  under  the  command  of 
General  Montgomery,  besieged  and  took  the  garrison  at  St. 
John's,  which  commands  the  entrance  into  Canada.  The 
prisoners  amounted  to  about  seven  hundred.  General  Mont- 
gomery pursued  his  success,  and  took  Montreal,  and  design- 
ed to  push  his  victories  to  Quebec.  A  body  of  troops,  com- 
manded by  Arnold,  was  ordered  to  march  to  Canada  by  the 
river  Kennebec,  and  through  the  wilderness.  After  suffering 
every  hardship,  and  the  most  distressing  hunger,  they  ar- 
rived in  Canada,  and  were  joined  by  General  Montgomery 
oefore  Quebec. 

This  city,  which  was  commanded  by  Governor  Carle- 
ton,  was  immediately  besieged.  But  there  being  little  hope 
of  taking  the  town  by  a  siege,  it  was  determined  to  storm  it. 
The  attack  was  made  on  the  last  day  of  December,  but 
proved  unsuccessful,  and  fatal  to  the  brave  general,  who  with 
his  aid  was  killed  in  attempting  to  scale  the  walls.  Of  the 
three  divisions  which  attacked  the  town,  one  only  entered, 
and  that  was  compelled  to  surrender  to  superior  force.  After 
this  defeat,  Arnold  who  now  commanded  the  troops,  conti- 
oued  some  months  before  Quebec,  although  his  troops  suffer- 


254  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

ed  incredibly  by  cold  and  sickness.  But  the  next  spring  the 
Americans  were  obliged  to  retreat  from  Canada. 

About  this  time  the  large  and  flourishing  town  of 
Norfolk,  in  Virginia,  was  wantonly  burnt  by  order  of  Lord 
Dunmore,  the  royal  governor.  General  Gage  went  to 
England  in  September,  and  was  succeeded  in  command  by 
General  Howe,  Falmouth,  a  considerable  town  in  the  pro- 
vince of  Maine,  in  Massachusetts,  shared  the  fate  of  Norfolk; 
being  laid  in  ashes  by  order  of  the  British  admiral. 

The  British  king  entered  into  treaties  with  some  of 
the  German  princes  for  about  seventeen  thousand  men,  who 
were  to  be  sent  to  America  the  next  year,  to  assist  in  subdu- 
ing the  colonies.  The  British  Parliament  also  passed  an  act, 
forbidding  all  intercourse  with  America  ;  and  while  they 
repealed  the  Boston  port  and  fishery  bills,  they  declared  all 
American  property  on  the  high  seas  forfeited  to  the  captors. 

This  act  induced  congress  to  change  the  mode  of  car- 
rying on  the  war ;  and  measures  were  taken  to  annojr  the 
enemy  in  Boston.  For  this  purpose  batteries  were  opened 
on  several  hills,  from  whence  shot  and  bombs  were  thrown 
into  the  town.  But  th£  batteries  which  were  opened  on 
Dorchester  point  had  the  best  effect,  and  soon  obliged  general 
Howe  to  abandon  the  town.  In  March.  1776,  the  British 
troops  embarked  for  Halifax,  and  general  Washington  en- 
tered the  town  in  triumph: 

In  the  ensuing  summer,  a  small  squadron  of  ships; 
under  the  command  of  sir  Peter  Parker,  and  a  body  of  troops 
under  the  generals  Clinton  and  Cornwallis,  attempted  to 
take  Charleston,  the  capital  of  South  Carolina.  The  ships 
made  a  violent  attack  upon  the  fort  on  Sullivan's  island,  but 
were  repulsed  with  great  loss,  and  the  expedition  wai 
abandoned. 


The  same  subject  continued. 

IN  July,  1776,  congress  published  their  Declaration  of 
Independence,  which  forever  separated  America  from  Great 
Britain.  This  great  event  took  place  two  hundred  and 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  255 

eighty-four  years  after  the  first  discovery  of  America  by 
Columbus — one  hundred  and  seventy  from  the  first  effect- 
ual settlements  in  Virgin ia— and  one  hundred  and  fifty-six 
from  the  first  settlement  of  Plymouth  in  Massachusetts, 
which  were  the  earliest  English  settlements  in  America; 
Just  after  this  declaration,  General  Howe,  with  a  powerful 
force,  arrived  near  New-York,  and  landed  the  troops  upon 
Staten  Island.  General  Washington  was  in  New-York,  with 
about  thirteen  thousand  men,  encamped  either  in  the  city,  01 
in  the  neighboring  fortifications. 

The  operations  of  the  Briiish  began  by  the  action  on 
Long  Island,  in  the  month  of  August.  The  Americans  were 
defeated,  and  General  Sullivan  and  Lord  Sterling,  with  A 
large  body  of  men,  were  made  prisoners.  The  night  after 
the  engagement,  a  retreat  was  ordered,  and  executed  with 
such  silence,  that  the  Americans  left  the  Island  without 
alarming  their  enemies,  and  without  loss.  In  September, 
the  city  of  New-York  was  abandoned  by  the  American  ar- 
my, and  taken  by  the  British. 

In  November,  fort  Washington,  on  York  Island,  was 
tanen,  and  more  than  two  thousand  men  made  prisoners. 
Fort  Lee,  opposite  to  Fort  Washington,  on  the  Jersey  shore, 
was  soon  after  taken,  but  the  garrison  escaped.  About  the 
same  time,  General  Clinton  was  sent,  with  a  body  of  troops, 
to  take  possession  of  Rhode  Island,  and  succeeded.  In  ad- 
dition to  all  these  losses  and  defeats,  the  American  army 
suffered  by  desertion,  and  more  by  sickness,  which  was  ep- 
idemic, and  very  mortal. 

The  northern  army,  at  Ticonderoga,  was  in  a  disagreea- 
ble situation,  particularly  after  the  battle  on  Lake  Champlain, 
in  which  the  American  force  consisting^of  a  few  light  vessels 
under  the  command  of  Arnold  and  General  Waterbury,  was 
totally  dispersed.  But  General  Carleton,  instead  of  pursu- 
ing his  victory,  landed  at  Crown  Point,  reconnoitered  our 
posts  at  Ticonderoga  and  Mount  Independence,  and  returned 
to  winter  quarters  in  Canada. 

At  the  close  of  this  year,  the  American  army  was 
dwindled  to  a  handful  of  men  ;  and  General  Lee  was  taken 
prisoner  in  New-Jersey.  Far  from  being  discouraged  at 
these  losses,  congress  took  measures  to  raise  and  establish  an 
army.  In  this  critical  situation,  General  Washington  sur- 
prised and  took  a  large  body  of  Hessians,  who  were  canton- 
ed at  Trenton  j  and  soon  after,  another  body  of  the  British 
troops,  at  Princeton.  The  address  in  planning  and  executing 
,hese  enterprises,  reflected  the  highest  honor  on  the  com- 
jiander  and  the  success  revived  the  desponding  hopeg  «f 


£56  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


America.  The  loss  of  General  Mercer,  a  gallant  officer,  at 
Princeton,  was  the  principal  circumstance  that  allayed  thd 
joy  of  victory. 

The  following  year  (1777)  was  distinguished  by  very 
memorable  events  in  favor  of  America.  On  the  opening  of 
the  campaign,  governor  Tryon  was  sent,  with  a  body  of 
troops,  to  destroy  the  stores  at  Danbury,  in  Connecticut. 
The  plan  was  executed,  and  the  town  mostly  burnt. 
The  enemy  suffered  in  their  retreat,  and  the  Americans  lost 
general  Wooster,  a  brave  and  experienced  officer.  General 
Prescott  was  taken  from  nis  quarters  on  Rhode  Island,  by 
the  address  and  enterprise  of  Col.  Barton,  and  conveyed 
prisoner  to  the  continent. 

General  Burgoyne,  who  commanded  the  northern 
British  army,  took  possession  of  Ticonderoga,  which  had 
been  abandoned  by  the  Americans;  He  pushed  his  successes, 
crossed  lake  George,  and  encamped  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  near  Saratoga.  His  progress  was  however  checked 
by  the  defeat  of  Colonel  Baum,  near  Bennington,  in  which 
the  undisciplined  militia  of  Vermont  under  General  Stark, 
displayed  unexampled  bravery  and  captured  almost  the 
whole  detachment. 

The  militia  assembled  from  all  parts  of  New  England, 
to  stop  the  progress  of  General  Burgoyne.  These,  with  the 
regular  troops,  formed  a  respectable  army,  commanded  by 
General  Gates.  After  two  severe  actions,  in  which  the 
generals  Lincoln  and  Arnold  behaved  with  uncommon  gal- 
lantry, and  were  wounded.  General  Burgoyne  found  himself 
enclosed  with  brave  troops,  and  was  forced  to  surrender  his 
whole  army,  amounting  to  seven»thousand  men,  into  the 
hands  of  the  Americans.  This  happened  in  October.  This 
event  diffused  a  universal  joy  over  America,  and  laid  a  foun- 
dation for  the  treaty  with  France. 

But  before  these  transactions,  the  main  body  of  the  Bri- 
tish forces  had  embarked  at  New^-York,  sailed  up  the  Chesa- 
peake, and  landed  at  the  head  of  Elk  River.  The  army  soon 
began  their  march  for  Philadelphia*  General  Washington 
had  determined  to  oppose  them,  and  for  this  purpose  made  a 
stand  upon  the  heights  near  Brandywine  Creek.  Here  the 
armies  engaged,  and  the  Americans  were  overpowered,  and 
suifered  great  loss. 

The  enemy  soon  pursued  their  march,  and  took  pos- 
session of  Philadelphia  toward  the  close  of  September.  Not 
long  after,  the  two  armies  were  again  engaged  at  German- 
town,  and  in  the  beginning  of  the  action  the  Americans  had 
Jic  advantage  j  but  by  some  unlucky  accident,  the  fortune  of 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  25V 

the  day  was  turned  in  favor  of  the  British.  Both  sides  suf- 
fered considerable  loss  ;  oa  the  side  of  the  Americans  was 
General  Nash. 

In  an  attack  upon  the  forts  at  Mud  Island  and  Red 
Bank,  the  Hessians  were  unsuccessful,  and  their  commander, 
Colonel  Donop,  killed.  The  British  also  lost  the  Augusta,  a 
ship  of  the  line.  But  the  forts  were  afterwards  taken,  and 
the  navigation  of  the  Delaware  opened.  General  Washing- 
ton was  reinforced  with  part  of  the  troops  which  had  com- 
posed the  northern  army,  under  General  Gates ;  and  both 
armies  retired  to  winter  quarters. 

In  October,  the  same  month  in  which  General  Burgoyne 
was  taken  at  Saratoga,  General  Vaughan,  with  a  small  fleet, 
sailed  up  Hudson's  River,  and  wantonly  burnt  Kingston,  a 
beautiful  Dutch  settlement,  on  the  west  side  of  the  river. 

]  3.  The  beginning  of  the  next  year  ( 1778)  was  distinguish- 
ed by  a  treaty  of  alliance  between  France  and  America  ;  br 
which  we  obtained  a  powerful  ally.  When  the  Englisn 
ministry  was  informed  that  this  treaty  was  on  foot,  they 
dispatched  commissioners  to  America  to  attempt  a  reconcilia- 
tion. But  America  would  not  now  accept  their  offers.  Early 
in  the  spring,  Count  de  Estaing,  with  a  fleet  of  fifteen  sail  of 
the  line,  was  sent  by  the  court  of  France,  to  assist  America. 

General  Howe  left  the  Army,  and  returned  to  England ; 
the  command  then  devolved  upon  Sir  Henry  Clinton.  In 
June,  the  British  army  left  Philadelphia,  and  marched  for 
New-York.  On  their  march  they  were  much  annoyed  by 
the  Americans  ;  and  at  Monmouth  a  very  regular  action  took 
place  between  part  of  the  armies;  the  enemy  were  repulsed 
with  great  loss;  and  had  General  Lee  obeyed  his  orders,  a 
signal  victory  must  have  been  obtained.  General  Lee,  for 
his  ill  conduct  that  day,  was  suspended,  and  was  never 
afterwards  permitted  to  join  the  army. 

In  August,  General  Sullivan,  with  a  large  body  of 
troops,  attempted  to  take  possession  of  Rhode  Island,  but  did 
not  succeed.  Soon  after  the  stores  and  shipping  at  Bedford, 
in  Massachusetts,  were  burnt  by  a  party  of  British  troops. — 
The  same  year,  Savannah,  the  capital  of  Georgia,  was  taken 
by  the  British,  under  the  command  of  Colonel  Campbell. 
In  the  following  year,  (1779,)  General  Lincoln  was  appointed 
to  the  command  of  the  southern  army.  Governor  Tryon 
and  Sir  George  Collier  made  an  incursion  into  Connecticut, 
and  burnt  with  wanton  barbarity,  the  towns  of  Fairfield  and 
Nor  walk. 

But  the  American  arms  were  crowned  with  success  in 
*  bold  attack  upon  Stony  Point,  which  was  surprised  and 


258  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 

taken  by  General  Wayne,  in  the  night  of  the  15th  of  July 
Five  hundred  men  were  made  prisoners,  with  a  small  loss  on 
either  side.  A  party  of  British  forces  attempted,  this  sum- 
mer, to  build  a  fort  on  Penobscot  River,  for  the  purpose  of 
cutting  timber  in  the  neighboring  forests.  A  plan  was  laid, 
by  Massachusetts,  to  dislodge  them,  and  a  considerable  fleet 
collected  for  the  purpose.  But  the  plan  failed  of  success, 
and  the  whole  marine  force  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  British, 
except  some  vessels  which  were  burnt  by  the  Americans 
themselves. 

In  October,  General  Lincoln  and  Count  de  Estaing 
made  an  assault  upon  Savannah;  but  they  were  repulsed 
with  considerable  loss.  In  this  action,  the  celebrated  Polish 
Count  Polaski,  who  had  acquired  the  reputation  of  a  brave 
soldier,  was  mortally  wounded.  In  this  summer,  General 
Sullivan  marched  with  a  body  of  troops  into  the  Indian 
country,  and  burnt  and  destroyed  all  their  provisions  and 
settlements  that  fell  in  his  way. 

On  the  opening  of  the  campaign,  the  next  year,  (1780,) 
the  British  troops  left  Rhode  Island.  An  expedition  under 
General  Clinton  and  Lord  Cornwallis,  was  undertaken 
against  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  where  General  Lincoln 
commanded.  This  town,  after  a  close  siege  of  about  six 
weeks,  was  surrendered  to  the  Britsh  commander;  and  Gene- 
ral Lincoln,  and  the  whole  American  garrison,  were  made 
prisoners. 

General  Gates  was  appointed  to  the  command  in  the 
soutnern  department  and  another  army  collected.  In  August, 
Lord  Cornwallis  attacked  the  American  troops  at  Camden, 
in  South  Carolina,  and  routed  them  with  considerable  loss. 
He  afterwards  marched  through  the  southern  states,  and 
supposed  them  entirely  subdued.  The  same  summer,  the 
British  troops  made  frequent  incursions  from  New-York  into 
the  Jerseys,  ravaging  and  plundering  the  country.  In  some 
of  these  descents,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Caldwell,  a  respectable  cler- 
gyman and  warm  patriot,  and  his  lady,  were  inhumanly 
murdered  by  the  savage  soldiery. 

In  July,  a  French  fleet,  under  Monsieur  de  Ternay, 
nrith  a  body  of  land  forces,  commanded  by  Count  de  Rocham- 
beau,  arrived  at  Rhode  Island,  to  the  great  joy  of  the  Ame- 
ricans. 

This  year  was  also  distinguished  by  the  infamous  trea- 

,son  of  Arnold.    General  Washington  having  some  businesi 

to  transact  at  Wetherstield,  in  Connecticut,  left  Arnold  to 

command  the  important  post  of  West  Point,  which  guard* 

a  pass  in  Hudson's  River,  about  sixty  miles  from  N?/w-York. 


AMERICAN  HISTORY.  259 

Arnold's  conduct  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia,  the  preceding 
winter  had  been  censured,  and  the  treatment  he  received  in 
consequence  had  given  him  offense.  He  determined  to  have 
revenge :  and  for  this  purpose  he  entered  into  a  negotiation 
with  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  to  deliver  West  Point  and  the  army 
into  the  hands  of  the  British. 

While  General  Washington  was  absent,  he  dismount- 
ed the  cannon  in  some  of  the  forts,  and  took  other  steps  to 
render  the  taking  of  the  post  easy  for  the  enemy.  But  by 
a  providential  discovery  the  whole  plan  was  defeated.  Ma- 
jor Andre,  aid  to  General  Clinton,  a  brave  officer,  who  had 
been  up  the  river  as  a  spy,  to  concert  the  plan  of  operations 
with  Arnold,  was  taken,  condemned  by  a  court-martial,  and 
executed.  Arnold  made  his  escape  by  getting  on  board  the 
Vulture,  a  British  vessel  which  lay  in  the  river.  His  conduct 
has  stamped  him  with  infamy,  and,  like  all  traitors,  he  is 
despised  by  all  mankind.  General  Washington  arrived  in 
camp  just  after  Arnold  had  made  his  escape,  and  restored 
order  in  the  garrison. 

After  the  defeat  of  General  Gates,  in  Carolina,  General 
Green  was  appointed  to  the  command  in  the  southern  de- 
partment. From  this  period,  things  in  this  quarter  wore  a 
more  favorable  aspect.  Colonel  Tarleton,  the  active  com- 
mander of  the  British  legion,  was  defeated  by  General  Mor- 
gan, the  intrepid  commander  of  the  riflemen.  After  a  variety 
of  movements,  the  two  armies  met  Guilford,  in  North 
Carolina.  Here  was  one  of  the  best  fought  actions  during 
the  war.  General  Greene  and  Lord  Cornwallis  exerted 
themselves,  at  the  head  of  their  respective  armies;  and  al- 
though the  Americans  were  obliged  to  retire  from  the  field 
of  bactle,  yet  the  British  army  suffered  an  immense  loss,  and 
could  not  pursue  the  victory.  This  action  happened  on  thd 
15th  of  March,  1781. 

In  the  spring,  Arnold,  who  was  made  a  brigadier-gene- 
ral in  the  British  service,  with  a  small  number  of  troops, 
sailed  for  Virginia,  and  plundered  the  country.  This  called 
the  attention  *f  the  French  fleet  to  that  quarter,  and  a  naval 
engagement  took  place,  between  the  English  and  French,  in 
which  some  of  the  English  ships  were  much  damaged,  and 
one  entirely  disabled. 

After  the  battle  of  Guilford,  General  Greene  moved 
toward  South  Carolina,  to  drive  the  British  from  their  posts 
in  that  state.  Here  Lord  Rawdon  obtained  an  inconsiderable 
advantage  over  the  Americans,  near  Camden.  But  General 
Greene  more  than  recovered  this  disadvantage,  by  the  bril- 
liant and  successful  action  at  the  Eutaw  Springs,  where! 


260  AMERICAN  HISTORY. 


General  Marion  distinguished  himself,  and  th?  brave 
Colonel  Washington  was  wounded  and  taken  prisoner. 
Lord  Cornwallis,  finding  General  Greene  successful  in  Ca- 
rolina, marched  to  Virginia,  collected  his  forces,  and  fortified 
himself  in  Yorktown. 

In  the  mean  time,  Arnold  made  an  incursion  into  Con- 
necticut, burnt  a  part  of  New  London,  took  Fort  Griswold 
by  storm,  and  put  the  garrison  to  the  sword.  The  garrison 
consisted  chiefly  of  men  suddenly  collected  from  the  little 
town  of  Groton,  which,  by  the  savage  cruelty  of  the  British 
officer  who  commanded  the  attack,  lost,  in  one  hour,  almost 
all  its  heads  of  families.  The  brave  Colonel  Ledyard,  who 
commanded  the  fort,  was  slain  with  his  own  sword  after  he 
had  surrendered. 

The  Marquis  de  la  Fayetle,  the  brave  and  generous  no- 
bleman, whose  services  command  the  gratitude  of  every 
American,  had  been  despatched  from  the  main  army  to  watch 
the  motions  of  Lord  Cornwallis,  in  Virginia.  About  the  last 
of  August,  Count  de  Grasse  arrived  with  a  large  fleet  in  the 
Chesapeake,  and  blocked  up  the  British  troops  at  Yorktown. 
Admiral  Greaves,  with  a  British  fleet,  appeared  off  the  Capes, 
and  an  action  succeeded,  but  it  was  not  decisive. 

General  Washington  had  before  this  time  moved  the 
main  body  of  his  army,  together  with  the  French  troops,  to 
the  southward  ;  and,  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  the  arrival  of  the 
French  fleet  in  the  Chesapeake,  he  made  rapid  marches  to 
the  head  of  the  Elk,  where,  embarking,  the  troops  soon  ar- 
rived at  Yorktown.  A  close  siege  immediately  commenced, 
and  was  carried  on  with  such  vigor  by  the  combined  forces 
of  America  and  France,  that  Lord  Cornwallis  was  obliged  to 
surrender. 

This  glorious  event,  which  took  place  on  the  19th  of 
October,  1781,  decided  the  contest  in  favor  of  America,  and 
laid  the  foundation  of  a  general  peace.  A  few  months  after 
the  surrender  of  Cornwallis,  the  British  evacuated  all  their 
posts  in  South  Carolina  and  Georgia,  and  retired  to  the  main 
army  in  New-York. 

The  next  spring,  (1782,)  Sii  Guy  Carlton  arrived  in 
New- York,  and  took  command  of  the  British  army  in  Ameri- 
ca. Immediately  after  his  arrival,  he  acquainted  General 
Washington  and  congress,  that  negotiations  for  a  peace  had 
been  commenced  at  Paris.  On  the  30th  of  November,  1782, 
the  provisional  articles  of  peace  were  signed  at  Paris,  by 
which  Great  Britain  acknowleged  the  independence  and 
sovereignty  of  the  United  States  of  America. 

Thus  ended  a  long  and  arduous  conflict,  in  which  Great 


DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE.  261 

Britain  expended  near  a  hundred  millions  of  money,  with  a 
hundred  thousand  lives,  and  won  nothing.  America  endured 
every  cruelty  and  distress  from  her  enemies — lost  many  lives 
and  much  treasure — but  delivered  herself  from  a  foreign  do- 
minion, and  gained  a  rank  among  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
mm 


CHAPTER  II. 


DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE, 

By  the    epresentatives  of  the  United  States  of  America,  in 
Congress  -assembled,  July  4,  ]  776. 

WHEN,  in  the  course  of  human  events,  it  becomes  neces- 
sary for  one  people  to  dissolve  the  political  bands  which  have 
connected  them  with  another,  and  to  assume  among  the  pow- 
ers of  the  earth  the  separate  and  equal  station  to  which  the 
laws  of  mtureand  of  nature's  God  entitle  them  a  decent  re- 
spect for  the  opinions  of  mankind  requires,  that  they  should 
declare  the  causes  which  impel  them  to  the  separation. 

We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident — that  all  men  are 
treated  equal;  that  they  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  with 
certain  unalienable  rights ;  that  among  these  are  life,  liberty 
and  the  pursuit  of  happiness.  That,  to  secure  these  rights, 
governments  are  instituted  among  men,  deriving  their  just 
powers  from  the  consent  of  the  governed ;  that  when  any 
form  of  government  becomes  destructive  of  these  ends,  it  is 
the  right  of  the  people  to  alter  or  to  abolish  it,  and  to  institute 
•new  government,  laying  its  foundation  on  such  principles, 
snd  organizing  its  powers  in  such  form  as  to  them  shall  seem 


262  DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 

most  likely  to  affect  their  saftety  and  happiness.  Prudence, 
indeed,  will  dictate,  that  governments  long  established, 
should  not  be  changed  for  Jig-In  and  transient  causes;  and 
accordingly,  all  experience  hath  shown,  that  mankind  are 
more  disposed  to  suiler,  while  evils  are  sufferable,  than  to 
right  themselves  by  abolishing  the  forms  to  which  they  are 
accustomed.  But  when  a  long  train  of  abuses  and  usurpa- 
tions, pursuing  invariably  the  same  object,  evinces  a  design 
to  reduce'them  under  absolute  despotism,  it  is  their  right,  it 
is  their  duty-,  to  throw  off  such  government,  and  to  provide 
new  guards  for  their  future  security.  Such  has  been  the  pa- 
tient sufferance  of  these  colonies  ;  and  such  is  now  the  ne- 
cessity which  constrains  them  to  alter  their  former  system 
of  government.  The  history  of  the  present  king  of  Great 
Britain  is  a  history  of  repeated  injuries  and  usurpations,  all 
having  in  direct  object  the  establishment  of  an  absolute 
tyranny  over  these  states.  To  prove  this,  let  facts  be  sub- 
mitted to  a  candid  world. 

He  has  refused  his  assent  to  laws  the  most  wholesome 
and  necessary  for  the  public  good. 

He  has  forbidden  his  governors  to  pass  laws  of  immediate 
and  pressing  importance,  unless  suspended  in  their  opera- 
tion till  his  assent  should  be  obtained;  and  when  so  sus- 
pended, he  has  utterly  neglected  to  attend  to  them. 

He  has  refused  to  pass  other  laws  for  the  accommodation 
of  large  districts  of  people,  unless  those  people  would  re- 
linquish the  right  of  representation  in  the  legislature — a  right 
inestimable  to  them,  and  formidable  to  tyrants  only. 

He  has  called  together  legislative  bodies,  at  places  un- 
usual, uncomfortable,  and  distant  from  the  depository  of 
their  public  records,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  fatiguing  them 
into  compliance  with  his  measures. 

He  has  dissolved  representative  houses  repeatedly,  for  op- 
posing with  manly  firmness,  his  invasions  on  the  rights  of 
the  people. 

He  has  refused  for  a  long  time  after  such  dissolutions,  to 
cause  others  to  be  elected;  whereby  the  legislative  powers, 
incapable  of  annihilation,  have  returned  to  the  people  at 
large  for  their  exercise ;  the  state  remaining,  in  the  mean- 
time, exposed  to  all  the  danger  of  invasion  from  without,  and 
convulsions  within. 

He  has  endeavored  to  prevent  the  population  of  these 
states ;  for  that  purpose  obstructing  the  laws  for  naturaliza- 
tion of  foreigners ;  refusing  to  pass  others  to  encourage  their 
migration  hither,  and  raising  the  conditions  of  new  appro- 
priations ef  lands. 


DECLARATION  OP  INDEPENDENCE.  26£ 

He  has  obstructed  the  administration  of  justice,  by  refusing 
his  assent  to  laws  for  establishing  judiciary  powers. 

He  has  made  judges  dependent  on  his  will  alone,  for  the 
tenure  of  their  offices,  and  the  amount  and  payment  of  their 
salaries. 

He  has  erected  a  multitude  of  offices,  and  sent  here  swarms 
of  officers  to  harass  our  people,  and  eat  out  their  substance. 

He  has  kept  among  us,  in  times  of  peace,  standing  armies, 
without  the  consent  of  our  legislatures. 

He  has  affected  to  render  tine  military  independent  of,  and 
superior  to,  the  ciy.il  power. 

He  has  combined  with  others  to  subject  us  to  a  jurisdic- 
tion, foreign  to  our  constitution,  and  unacknowledged  by  our 
laws ;  giving  his  assent  to  their  a,cts  of  pretended  legislation : 

For  quartering  large  bodies  of  armed  troops  among  us  : 

For  protecting  them  by  a  mock  trial,  from  punishment  for 
any  murder  they  should  commit  on  the  inhabitants  of  these 
states  : 

For  cutting  off  our  trade  with  all  parts  of  the  world : 

For  imposing  tajfes  on  us  without  our  consent : 

For  depriving  us,  in  many  cases,  of  the  benefits  of  trial  by 
jury: 

For  transporting  us  beyond  seas,  to  be  tried  for  pretended 
offenses : 

For  abolishing  the  free  system  of  English  law  in  a  neigh- 
boring province,  establishing  therein  an  arbitrary  govern- 
ment, and  enlarging  its  boundaries  so  as  to  render  it  at  once 
an  example  and  fit  instrument  for  introducing  the  same  ab- 
solute rule  in  these  colonies  : 

For  taking  away  our  charters,  abolishing  our  most  valu- 
able laws,  and  altering  fundamentally  the  forms  of  our 
governments  : 

For  suspending  our  own  legislatures,  and  declaring  them- 
selves invested  with  power  to,  legislate  for  us  in  all  cases 
whatsoever : 

He  has  abdicated  government  here,  by  declaring  us  out  of 
his  protection,  arid  waging  war  against  us. 

He  has  plundered  our  seas,  ravaged  our  coasts,  burnt  our 
towns,  and  destroyed  the  lives  of  our  people. 

He  is,  at  this  time,  transporting  large  armies  of  foreign 
mercenaries,  to  complete  the  works  of  death,  desolation  and 
tyranny,  already  begun,  with  circumstances  of  cruelty  and 
perfidy,  scarcely  paralleled  in  th.e  most  barbarous  ages,  and 
totally  unworthy  the  head  of  a  civilized  nation. 

He  has  constrained  our  fellow  citizens,  taken  captive  on 
the  high  seas,  to  bear  arms  against  their  country,  to  become 


264  DECLARATION  OP  INDEPENDENCE. 

the   executioners  of  their  friends    and  brethren,  or  to   fall 
themselves  by  their  hands. 

He  has  excited  domestic  insurrections  amongst  us,  and  has 
endeavored  to  faring  on  the  inhabitants  of  our  frontiers,  the 
merciless  Indian  savages,  whose  known  rule  of  warfare  is  an 
undistinguished  destruction  of  all  ages,  sexes,  and  conditions. 

la  every  stage  of  these  oppressions,  we  have  petitioned 
for  redress,  in  the  most  humble  terms :  our  petitions  have 
been  answered  only  by  repeated  injury.  A  prince  whose 
character  is  thus  marked,  by  every  act  which  may  define  a 
tyrant,  is  unfit  to  be  the  ruler  of  a  free  people. 

Nor  have  we  been  wanting  in  attention  to  our  British 
brethren.  We  have  warned  them,  from  time  to  time,  of  at- 
tempts made  by  their  legislature,  to  extend  an  unwarrantable 
jurisdiction  over  us.  We  have  reminded  them  of  the  cir- 
cumstances of  our  emigration  and  settlement  here.  We 
have  appealed  to  their  native  justice  and  magnanimity,  and 
we  have  conjured  them  by  the  ties  of  our  common  kindred, 
to  disavow  these  usurpations,  which  would  inevitably  inter- 
rupt our  connexions  and  correspondence.  They,  too,  have 
been  deaf  to  the  voice  of  justice  and  consanguinity.  We 
must,  therefore,  acquiesce  in  the  necessity,  which  denounces 
our  separation,  and  hold  them,  as  we  hold  the  rest  of  man- 
kind— enemies  in  war— in  peace,  friends. 

We,  therefore,  the  representatives  of  the  United  States  of 
America,  in  general  congress  assembled,  appealing  to  the 
Supreme  Judge  of  the  world  for  the  rectitude  of  our  inten- 
tions, do,  in  the  name  and  by  the  authority  of  the  good  peo- 
ple of,  these  colonies,  solemnly  publish  and  declare,  that 
these  united  colonies  are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be,  free  and 
independent  states  ;  that  they  are  absolved  from  all  allegi- 
ance to  the  British  crown,  and  that  all  political  connexion 
between  them  and  the  state  of  Great  Britain,  is  and  ought 
to  be  totally  dissolved  ;  and  that  as  free  arid  independent 
states,  they  have  full  power  to  levy  war,  conclude  peace,  con- 
tract alliances,  establish  commerce,  and  do  all  other  acts  and 
things  which  independent  states  may  of  right  do.  And  for 
the  support  of  this  declaration,  with  a  firm  reliance  on  the 
protection  of  Divine  Providence,  we  mutually  pledge  to  each 
other  our  lives,  our  fortunes,  and  our  sacred  honor. 

Signed  by  order  and  in  behalf  of  the  Congress. 

JOHN  HANCOCK,  President. 
Attest,  CHARLES  THOMPSON,  Secretary. 

New  Hampshire— Josiah  Bartlett  William  Whipple,  Ma-, 
thew  Thornton. 


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